


Drenched

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Merlock [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Dark!Mycroft, Depression, F/M, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Merlock, Most Pairings Not Described, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, OctoJohn, Oral, Phobias, Racism, Rimming, Tentacle Sex, Water Sex, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 71,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns home from war to recover from his injury and develops an acute phobia that lands him an honorable discharge. While trying to overcome his sudden fear of the water he finds himself dwelling on an old memory of a childhood vacation gone awry and a young boy swimming in the water with him who everyone insists couldn't have been there. </p><p>The middle of this fic (the part I got stuck on for months) was inspired by this fic: A Study in Homo-Octopoda</p><p>Please give the above artist love and respect if you should comment on their fics. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Study in Homo-Octopoda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/957378) by [darkangel1211](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211). 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I still remember it like it was yesterday,” John explained to his therapist, “I don’t recall what made me jump into the water, but there he was when I opened my eyes.”

“Under water?” Dr. Karyn asked.

“Yes. I grabbed his hands, he smiled at me- it was surreal- then they pulled me out of the water. I pitched a fit, of course, but no one else had seen him. Finally I managed to convince someone there _had_ been someone in the water. They sent divers down for an entire day and alerted the areas where the tide moved. My parents sat me down and explained that there was very little chance I’d ever see him again. I don’t think they used the words ‘drowned’ or ‘dead’, but I was old enough to understand what they were dodging around. I was hysterical. Terrified for that poor little boy that no one had saved. I stopped talking for a month.”

“You were traumatized.”

“I suppose.”

“John, now we’ve discussed this, do you think you can tell me about Afghanistan?”

“There’s nothing to tell. It was war, it was horrible, and people died- every day- but there’s nothing fantastical about it. I have nightmares, but all the men did. They aren’t particularly awful. Mostly just flashes of light, gunfire, and screams. Nothing I can’t deal with. I’m not loosing sleep or anything. Not having flashbacks or panic attacks. Nothing.”

“You think my diagnosis is wrong.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it phrased angrily.

“I didn’t say that.”

“What do you think the problem is?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m seeing you.” John snapped, starting to loose his temper.

“How are your swimming lessons coming along?”

“They aren’t. I still can’t go near the water.”

“Do you think it’s related to the memory you’ve just shared or Afghanistan?”

“Damn Afghanistan!” John shouted, before holding up his hands and apologizing, “I… I’m sorry. I’m just… I didn’t have a fear of water before Afghanistan, but I don’t know what’s caused it. It’s not like there was water there.”

“There was the sun reflecting off the sand. Many people say it resembles water. These sort of associations occur in our minds.”

“Right. Sure.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

http://static.ddmcdn.com/gif/cruise-ship5.jpg

John stood on the edge of the dock and stared at the cruise boat. His therapist’s recommendation on a large cruise boat was putting quite a hole in his wallet, but he was looking forward to the holiday. It made sense, after all; he would hardly see the ocean but he’d be on it all the time. Eventually he’d make a bit of peace with it. The goal was to ease him into swimming in the Caribbean since the water there was so clear it would be ‘less threatening’ to him. Of course, John had pointed out the pool he’d been terrified to even approach all month was clear as well, but she’d insisted this was the best course of action. She was going along, so John suspected she was simply looking for an opportunity to go on a cruise herself and file it on her taxes as work. He hadn’t said so, but he was still thinking it as he stared up at the sky and carefully boarded the ship by hand alone. So long as he didn’t _see_ the water he was fine.

The windows were an issue. His therapist and he were sharing a cabin and John refused to enter it until she closed the curtains so he couldn’t see the water through those tiny triple paned circles. Everyone was staring at the fool pitching a fit outside his cabin before the ship had even left dock. He could see them memorizing his face and adding him to the list of people to avoid during the cruise. Twenty minutes in and he had already been labeled ‘nutcase’.

John set himself up comfortably on the top bunk and tried not to make eye contact with his therapist. She was just twitching to dissect his brain and he wasn’t having any of it. Five days till they reached the Caribbean. John was already regretting this trip.

XXXXXXXXX

John had managed to avoid his therapist for most of the trip despite sharing a cabin with her. She had jokingly called him a Guerilla when she’d managed to hunt him down at an all night casino. He had laughed it off, but they both know he was dodging her.

Now was the real test. John couldn’t deny the beauty of the beach before him, but he still felt that gripping fear creeping up on him. He refused to remove his shirt despite the abundance of skin around him. While he was still in excellent shape from his military tour, he didn’t want anyone seeing his bullet wound. His therapist had a supportive hand on his back and they’d been taking slow steps towards the water. It was humiliating. Especially the part where a five year old girl had run up and told him there was nothing to be afraid of, that the sharks didn’t come to this area. He’d smiled and thanked her while wishing the sand would turn into quicksand and swallow him whole.

Finally they were at the edge where the sand became damp and he jumped a bit as some of it splashed over his toes. It felt good after that baking long walk, though, so he laughed it off when she offered to back up a bit. He was obscenely proud of himself for getting in up to his ankles before his legs started shaking. They turned in for the day and spent the night talking. He brought up the boy in the water again.

The next day he managed to get up to his waist, and was honestly enjoying jumping the waves with a group of teenage girls who thought his accent was ‘so hot!’. The therapist left him to it, and he wasn’t sorry at all to see her sitting on the shore watching him discretely. He made sure to mention they _weren’t_ an item.

The third day was the one he was dreading: the trip out onto the ocean on a smaller boat. Dr. Karyn had offered to skip it, saying she had thought he’d get further than this by now. He refused. He was determined to defeat this here and now. John stubbornly booked a tour and they set out to go dolphin watching.

“This is the place, you know,” John reminded her, for what must have been the third time. He didn’t mean this _exact_ place, just off the coast of this island.

“That you saw the boy in the water,” She finished.

“Yes, I know. I’ve said it before. It’s just something I can’t seem to let go of. That poor kid. No one even reported him missing. I made up stories about him as a child; about him being an orphan and that he was really down there because he jumped in to join the fish because the dolphins wanted to play with him. That he learned to breathe water and grew a tail.”

“Is that why you picked the dolphin watching trip?”

“I suppose.”

“John, what do you really think happened that day?”

“I think… I think he was already dead when I saw him and my mind just covered it up. In my memory he’s so pale…”

“It would explain your concentration on it, and your fears. Perhaps as a child you weren’t ready to face his death, but once you saw death in Afghanistan you had no choice. Your mind is trying to cope with a decades long wound. That’s a terrible thing for anyone to face.”

“Yeah… just… How do I even begin to face that?”

“You may need to properly mourn him, John.”

“I didn’t even _know_ him.”

“You knew of him, and you were the only one who did. To a child that means a great deal when it’s another child. You made stories up about him, created a life for him. He was basically your imaginary friend, _who you saw dead_. That’s a terrible loss.”

“I suppose.”

John was steady while boarding the double-decked tour boat, and he even managed to stay calm as they got further out to sea. He was feeling proud, smiling at Dr. Karyn and enjoying the sunny weather and the cool breeze. She smiled supportively and kindly didn’t question him in the close company of all of these people. He was extremely embarrassed about being on holiday with his _therapist_. He already had a low enough opinion of himself; he didn’t need it supported by others.

<http://www.gtds.com/info/archives/ScubarooBoat---web.jpg> \- Dolphin Watching Boat

It wasn’t John who noticed the leak; it was a little girl playing on the ground in her little float vest. She laughed and slapped at the water and her parents got nervous enough to point it out. The owner of the vessel played it off rather well, laughing and saying that sometimes the boats sprung small leaks, but that they were in no danger. Everyone, including John, might have remained calm, if the man hadn’t been overheard sending out a distress call by one of the other passengers. The panic that ensued as everyone ignored instructions and frantically tried to get to the inflatable life rafts was the closest John had ever come to seeing the chaos of war outside of Afghanistan. People shoved, kicked, pulled hair, and screamed obscenities. The little girl curled up against the side of the boat and cried, holding her knees to her chest, while her mother stood protectively over her and screamed for ‘women and children first’.

The life rafts were activated tossed overboard and people started struggling to get in. Finally the tour guide got them all organized, and by then the ship really was listing to one side, and everyone had jumped overboard and been tugged into the rafts except John.

John was standing on the deck of the sinking ship simply staring at the closest life raft. None of this seemed real. His therapist was already on the raft and was trying to convince the tour guide that she had to go back for John. He was holding her arm firmly and yelling at John to jump in the water. He kept pointing out John had a life vest on. He’d be fine. John stood there and stared at them. Finally, the tour guide gave him up for lost, and the other passengers seemed of the same accord.

“We have to get further away, the boat is going to pull us down with her otherwise,” The tour guide argued with Dr. Karyn.

“That boat isn’t even that big! We’ll be fine! John! You have to jump in of you’ll drown! Please! Just take a deep breath and jump.” Dr. Karyn

John took a deep breath but it didn’t change anything. He wasn’t panicked. He was calm, completely calm.

“I know it isn’t that big,” the guide argued, “but the resulting suction might pop our raft. There are _sharks_ in this part of the ocean. We must keep the raft afloat until the coastguard arrives. He has a vest, he’ll be pulled under but he’ll float back up. He’ll be fine. Once he’s in the water and the ship has sunk we’ll row back for him.”

“John! Please! You’re safe! He’s not in the water! You won’t drown if you just _come into the raft_!”

The group was already rowing away and two passengers kept a firm grip on Dr. Karyn to keep her from jumping in after John. Feeling grateful for her consideration, he gave her a small wave and a smile.

_It will be fine._ He thought, though he had no idea what made him think that.

The ship gave a sudden lurch and John was knocked sideways, slamming his head against the bulwark. He righted himself after he got a face full of water. It was a bit of a fright after that, as the ship slowly tipped up and he was dumped unceremoniously into the water. He managed to paddle a bit away from the craft- his vest holding him up quite well when the ship dipped down completely and the resulting undercurrent tugged him beneath the waves. It happened so quickly that John got a mouthful of water instead of air.

Then he panicked.

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/86342.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sherlock couldn’t keep away from the dolphin boats. He’d been warned hundred’s of times, his brother had dragged him away from them time and again, and still he couldn’t stay away. He knew that it was dangerous, that last time he’d gotten spotted they’d all had to stay in the ravine for a week. Everyone remembered that week, especially the part where food became scarce. In fact, he had gotten tossed in gaol overnight the last time his brother had caught him chasing the dolphin boats again.

Every year their migration took them from the summer coasts of Europe on one side of the Atlantic to the warmer coasts of the islands and South America during the winter months. Sherlock always felt exhilarated as he rode the currents, speeding by faster than those fat ships above, until he reached the Caribbean and the dolphin boats. When they left the Caribbean his hope dropped again, and he would have to wait another year before he could spend a month chasing the boats in the hopes he’d find his soul mate again.

Then that boat had started sinking and Sherlock had hovered beneath the water, watching everyone who jumped in and hoping against hope that he was there. He often crept up on the boats and peered over the side while the dolphins kept the occupants distracted on one side of the boat, but now he had a better chance of seeing the man’s face. He remembered the shock of blonde hair, the eyes like the ocean – moving from blue to brown and back again – the ready smile and open arms. He would be older now, of course, but Sherlock had never stopped looking.

His own people couldn’t understand why he was so obsessed with finding a human. Sherlock was popular, being as attractive as he was; he could easily find a merman or mermaid if he wanted one. Unfortunately, he never found anyone who interested him. He’d felt a connection with that boy all those years ago, and he knew that was the one person he needed to have by his side. He would lure the human into the water and give him the algae to let him breathe water. He’d have him forever.

Then the ship had reached the danger point and Sherlock had swum away from the riptide it would produce. It was as he was moving away that he heard a splash that didn’t quite fit. He turned to look back and saw a human floundering in the water, clearly panicking and reducing the effectiveness of those bubble things they wore around their chests. His frantic motions got the edge of his fin cover* caught on a rail of the ship and he started to plummet down with it. Sensing his loss of motion, the man’s face turned upwards, eyes open wide in hopeless fear, and the sifting sunlight caught it.

Sherlock’s heart nearly froze. He dove after the sinking ship as quickly as he could, dark purple tail pumping with whiplash motions that he’d likely feel tomorrow. Finally he caught up to the man, freed his foot, and yanked him upwards. He pressed the man tightly to himself so that they could gain speed, and felt their body’s motions sync up. They were flowing together, just as he’d known they would.

Sherlock broke the surface and held his mate above it, thumping him hard on the back as he’d seen humans do when one of them took a dunking. He choked and coughed up water, gasping for air with a dreadful wheezing sound. Once he was breathing better Sherlock made shushing sounds in his ear, trying to calm him. They spoke different languages, but Sherlock was sure he could communicate with him if he just held him tightly enough. He seemed to understand, and went limp, his head falling back against Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closed and arms extended. He stopped kicking and Sherlock kept them afloat with just his tail as his arms wrapped securely around him.

The man spoke, his voice deep and beautiful, it sounded wistful though Sherlock didn’t recognize the words.

 It was miles below to the algae he needed, and his love wouldn’t make it, so Sherlock set off for shore, pressing him into a dead man’s float so he could tow him. Ignoring the nearby boats that were starting to row back, he used his people’s techniques of hiding behind up-swells to keep himself and his love hidden from sight. It was a zig-zagging path, but it was easy enough for someone who lived their life in the water.

Sherlock allowed himself and his love to be washed ashore, the man sputtering as a wave splashed water in his face, before opening his eyes and scrambling backwards like a crab towards the dry sand. He seemed suddenly frightened and confused. Sherlock watched him with no small amount of confusion, but his fear didn’t seem to be directed at Sherlock. That was something at least.

Sherlock couldn’t get to the shore this way, the sand would rub at his scales, so he pressed himself back into the water, hugging the bottom so the current could pull him back under. Sherlock swam up almost a mile before he found a rocky outcropping he could climb out on. Then he had to wait impatiently in the sun for his tail to dry and turn into legs. He scrambled up on them awkwardly; whenever he walked on Dryland he always felt like the land was swaying beneath him in an attempt to knock him back into the sea. Finally he made his way back down the coast and to the point he’d left his love.

He was nowhere in sight. Sherlock had lost him again.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock swam down to the wreck, determined to find some clue as to his love’s location. He searched it and the surrounding sand, getting help from the neighborhood bottom dwellers, until he found a wallet that had his picture in it. Finally! More determined than ever, Sherlock swam up to the shore once more, dried himself in the sun, and strode towards the distant mountains.

There were people _living_ in the mountains**, just like his kind lived in the caverns below! The mountains were of the strangest shapes, though, all perfect corners and flat, shiny surfaces. They weren’t one big shaped thing as they looked from the ocean; there were many of them with large amounts of space in between. There were also small squat ones**. More peculiar than any of this, were the giant conch shells*** the human’s traveled in. They seemed to have some sort of snail*** already in them, then human’s scrambled in as well, then the four little snails on the bottom took off at impressive speed.

Sherlock was just pondering a smaller, less mobile version of these conches, which had lovely smells coming from it and a man yelling ‘hot dogs!’, when the men in matching clothes showed up. They were very annoyed with Sherlock and yelled and pointed at him. Sherlock knew about clothing; he’d seen them enough from the water and some had ended up floating about on more than one occasion, but he had no idea where someone got them besides them being washed out to sea. He didn’t have any with him, though, so he had simply come ashore and hoped someone would hand him some or point out where they were grown.

The men didn’t understand his gestures, which amounted to ‘I’d love some, thanks’, and pushed him into one of the conch shells. Sherlock curiously looked down, but the snails weren’t visible from this part. They must be in the next coil over. The ride in the conch shell was nauseating, but he managed to keep his supper down.

The men then made Sherlock wrap up in a long strip of clothing- one of them said ‘blanket’ repeatedly so Sherlock repeated it gamely- and led him into one of the larger mountains. He was then stuffed in gaol.

Well. This he was familiar with, at least. No difference between human gaol and merpeople gaol, except that he had no way get legal aid. He showed the men the wallet he’d found, shouting at them angrily when they took it away, and then sat himself down on a hard rock to wait. He was cold and the ‘blanket’ helped a bit. They brought him some clothes, finally, and he worked out how to put them on in short order.

A few hours later _he_ arrived.

*Sherlock means ‘sandal’ in this case, though he’d also refer to shoes this way.  
**Buildings & Houses: From a distance they looked like a mountain range, and he had no other frame of reference. <http://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/2220560.jpg>  
***Cars & Tires: <http://www.dbenson.net/photo/seadancer/conch-detail.3.jpg>

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 3

John had given himself up for mad. He was being forced to stay in hospital overnight due to exposure and fluid in his lungs, but that wasn’t the worse part. Dr. Karyn had just spent several hours calmly telling him there was no way he’d seen the boy (all grown up) on the shore after his harrowing near death experience. He maintained that he hadn’t been near death at all; he’d gotten a lungful of water but hadn’t blacked out at any point.

“I was awake the whole time. It was as real as you are now! He held me and swam for me, he got me to shore, and then the water pulled him back under! If we can just _look_ for him…” John argued.

“John, he isn’t real. I’m sorry, but he simply is not real.” Dr. Karyn insisted, trying to hold his hands and stare into his eyes, which he wholeheartedly resented, “I’m glad your safe, it’s a miracle, there’s no doubting that. You swam miles in the sun, you’re burnt, tired, waterlogged, and you nearly aspirated on seawater. This has been devastating, but please try to believe me when I tell you he doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of your very frightened imagination. In fact, I’m beginning to think you didn’t see him as a child, either.”

“An imaginary friend, you said before? You really think that? I’m 42 years old, I don’t have imaginary friends!”

“What other explanation is there?”

“He’s a diver.”

“A diver?”

“He must be, it’s the only thing that fits! A deep-sea diver. He’s probably the son of a local, so he’d have been doing it since he was a child. I’ve heard of people like that. They can hold their breath for twenty minutes at a time and… stop looking at me like that!”

Dr. Karyn tried her best to wipe the sad, pitying look off her face, but it only frustrated John more.

“John, you must recognize that you’re making up stories again like you did before…”

A knock at the door saved them from a row, and one of the local police walked in.

“Excuse me, Sir? I was told you’re John Watson?” The officer asked, his accent local and difficult to follow.

“Yes?”

“We’ve got your wallet, and we’d like to ask you a few questions about the person who found it.”

“Oh, cheers, I was going barmy wondering how I’d replace it. Is everything still in?”

“Looks like, here it is.”

“Thanks, you had a question?”

“Yes, about the man who found it.”

“Sorry? I’ve been here for half the day, I’ve got no idea who found it.”

“We were hoping you know him, actually, he’s a bit… weird.”

“Weird?”

“Found him wandering around Hotel Boulevard, completely nude, with just your wallet in hand.”

John felt the color drain out of his face.

“Dark, curly hair? Green eyes, freckle in one? Skin pale as death? Big lips?”

“That’s the one, you know him?”

“Sort of, he saved my life today. He had purple pants and scuba flippers on last I saw him.”

“He lost them somewhere, I guess. You know his name?”

“Not so much, we’ve met a few times, but I owe him a debt of gratitude. Can I be of any help?”

“You can come to the station and collect him. He doesn’t seem to speak any language we’ve ever heard. Sounds a bit like that African dialect, with all the clicking?”

“Like a dolphin?”

“Hey, yeah! That’s pretty funny!” The man laughed, apparently thinking it some sort of racist joke.

“Hilarious,” John deadpanned.

The policeman looked uncomfortable, not sure how to take John’s reaction and probably made more so by Dr. Karyn looking confused and a bit alarmed.

“I’ll come down at once.”

“John, you’ve just been admitted…!” Dr. Karyn started to argue.

“At once!” John replied, throwing out his parade voice. He wasn’t waiting about. He pulled the plugs off his chest, slid out the I.V. to the alarm of the rooms occupants, bandaged it before the nurses even had time to reach the room, and was changing into his clothes when they did and started shouting at him. He ignored them all, reminding them calmly that he wasn’t a prisoner, and stomped out the door sans footwear. He had lost both sandals in the ocean despite their straps. He bought flipflops from a man on the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

XXXXXXXXX

Sea green eyes looked up at John with absolute joy, as though he was the entire center of the universe, and John felt his heart lurch almost painfully in his chest. The man jumped up, staggering a bit, then regained his footing and hurried over to the bars. To John’s surprise he grabbed his shirt, tugged him against the bars, and kissed him soundly. John stood stock still, too shocked to react, and the man eventually released him and gave him a confused look. He reached up and ran his fingers along John’s cheek, making a soft shushing noise and smiling hopefully.

“Well, ahem, hullo, I guess,” John stammered, blushing bright red.

“Well, ahem, hullo, I guess,” The man imitated, his voice deep enough to send shivers up John’s spine.

“That’s all he ever does besides click and squeak. Imitates us. Believe me, it’s far less annoying when he copies you,” A policeman explained to John.

“Is there bail?”

“Nah, we’re not pressing charges. He’s obviously ‘special’. You know him, yeah?”

“Yes. Sort of. We knew each other as kids and we sort of… ran into each other again,” John turned back to the dark haired man, “Sorry, I don’t even recall your name?”

He blinked at him, and smiled prettily.

“John,” John stated, patting his chest and feeling the fool.

“John,” The man replied, patting John’s chest, then he lifted an eyebrow, smirked, and _groped_ his chest.

“Oi, none of that. John.” John patted his chest again, and then pressed his fingertips to the other man’s.

“Sherl’ck.” The man replied, his mouth clicking curiously on the last syllable.

“How do you do that?” John asked, not seeing his tongue move in any discernable way.

“John,” Sherlock replied, patting John’s chest and then indicating his own again, “Sherl’ck.”

“Sherlock.” John replied, adding the ‘o’ and dropping the click.

Sherlock beamed and tried to put his arms around John through the bars, but he stepped back warily.

“So, I can just take him, then?”

“Unless you know anyone else who can be contacted? We tried all the hospitals, nuthouses, and homes around here,” The officer asked, but John shook his head.

The cell door slid open and Sherlock stepped forward, looking wounded at John’s refusal to let him hug him once more.

“Keep the jumpsuit,” The officer added, indicating the outfit, “And keep him off the streets.”

“Thanks,” John replied, and took Sherlock’s arm to lead him away.

Sherlock was quiet the entire ride to the cruise ship, watching the scenery with avid interest. When they approached the ocean again, Sherlock’s face lit up and he clutched at John’s arm, pointing out to sea.

“Yeah, I know. That’s where you’re from. I don’t know how…” John studied the man’s face and found himself blushing again. How on _earth_ was someone this beautiful without having tits and other assorted feminine parts? Then again, from what little he knew, the man probably wasn’t _from_ earth.

Sneaking him on board the ship sounded like a brilliant plan right up until he had to glance down at the water to start planning it. He blanched and backed up immediately. Sherlock gave him a baffled look and pointed towards the water.

“Go?” He asked, attempting English for the first time without copying John word for word.

“Yes, we’re going there,” John pointed to the ship. To his surprise, Sherlock blanched much as he had and took a few steps back.

“Great. I’m afraid of water and you’re afraid of boats. How about we split the difference and take a plane back to London?”

“Lon Don?”

“Yeah. London. England. Europe. Any of this ring bells?”

“Yeah. London. England. Europe. Any of this ring bells?”

John sighed and looked back towards the hotels. If he was at least on English soil he wouldn’t care about starting his whole life over wherever this strange man wanted to be, but he couldn’t stay here without citizenship, or at least a Visa, and he certainly couldn’t get his pension check here.

“Okay, this ship leaves in the morning and we both have to be on it. Once you’re on it’s not so bad, so let’s just work on that. I can get up the plank thingy, can you shimmy up that?” John indicated the gigantic chains mooring the ship to the doc. He traced its path onto the ship with his finger and Sherlock followed it with intelligent eyes.

_He must be smart, to start learning a whole new language just like that._

Sherlock gave him a worried look and pointed to the gangway instead.

“Right. Let’s try it and see how it goes. I’ll go up first, you wait and then follow when I signal you. You got that?”

Sherlock blinked at him, eyebrows furrowed, clearly trying to souse out what he was saying. He pointed to the gangway again. John gave up and nodded, then gave Sherlock a motion that he hoped translated to ‘wait here’.

John hurried up the gangway, his eyes upwards again so he couldn’t see the water below. Once on board he glanced around. A few passengers were lazing about near the pool, but for the most part it was deserted this time of night. He motioned for Sherlock to come up and he slowly walked towards him, holding the rails and looking nervous. He kept his eyes locked on John the entire time as though he would save him if he fell.

John grasped the man by the arm again once he was on board and tugged him down to his cabin to change clothes. That’s where things became awkward; because though the man clearly was aware that John wanted him to change clothes, once he was out of his prison garb he was far more interested in getting John out of _his_ clothes as well. He pressed against John, his cock semi-hard, and tried to tug his shirt off while pressing kisses to his neck. John had rarely been seduced in his life, and this was by far the most awkward attempt, but he had never felt this receptive towards someone, either. He soon found himself pressing the lovely creature down onto Dr. Karyn’s bunk, and kneeling between his legs. Sherlock was panting eagerly, legs wriggling as though he didn’t know what to do with them. John settled it by pinning him down with his hips and starting to rut against him. Sherlock cried out eagerly and rubbed his hips back. John took a moment to pull away and undo his trousers before pressing against the man once more. They frotted eagerly, John amazed that he could feel this level of excitement with a man. John came first, having been celibate for _far_ too long, and Sherlock keened his approval and began rutting harder now he had fluids to glide through. John curiously took his shaft in hand and Sherlock let out a startled cry and came forcefully.

They stared at each other in amazement before John realized they could be caught at any moment and pulled Sherlock up. The man nearly fell, but John soon righted him, helped him clean up, and then pressed clothes on him once more. Once he had the young man stuffed in his own wardrobe he took him to the casino where he’d be less likely to stand out.

“Okay, we have to work out what we do from here. I have to find a place to stash you at night. For the most part you can go anywhere and do anything all night long, except sleep. Sleep someplace and they’ll tap your shoulder and shoo you back to your cabin, which we can’t have since I’m sharing it with my bloody therapist… who is fired, by the way.”

Sherlock was paying _very_ close attention to him so John decided it was lesson time. He looped an arm through Sherlock’s and decided pretending to be lover’s taking a stroll was the best bet. He walked along, leaning close to him, and whispered the names of everything he saw. Sherlock’s eyes followed him and he could practically _see_ the man learning. It was brilliant.

Now if they could only survive the crew checking the ship before leaving port they’d be home free.

[ CHAPTER 4 ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/86856.html)   



	4. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 4

Once Sherlock realized that ‘John’ was going to show him around _his_ world, he lost all interest in returning to his own for the time being. This was simply too fascinating! He’d spent most of his life bored, drifting from current to current and ignoring his own kinds mating habits in favor of keeping himself virginal for this very man. Now here he was, freshly wanked, hopefully in preparation for a proper mating later, and being shown around a _boat_. He had always wondered what they looked like on the inside, and was amused to find they had lots of running water. John called them taps, and called the larger one a pool, but avoided anything larger than a tap. He also avoided the edge of the boat, and Sherlock was beginning to suspect his love was afraid of _water_ of all things. Who could be afraid of water? It was necessary to all life, even those outside of the ocean. Being afraid of water was like being afraid of air.

They were in a room that had a lot of humans in it, and Sherlock was beginning to feel agoraphobic despite his curiosity, when the most gorgeous sound filled the air. It sounded similar to dolphin or whale song, and Sherlock grasped John’s hand and headed towards it eagerly. It seemed to be coming from a chunk of driftwood that a man was holding to his chin and stroking with another bit of driftwood and hair. Odd. It seemed to be a musical instrument, but his kind had nothing like _this_ under the water. It was like singing without your voice!

Sherlock listened to the sound for a bit, swaying in place, than started singing along, but John became agitated when he did and shushed him. It was a bit late, though, and everyone was staring in surprise. John laughed and babbled what sounded like excuses to Sherlock’s ears.

“Sorry! Sorry! He #### ### # ### ### #### ## drink! He’s a ######.”

Sherlock worried about what John had called him, but was quickly being tugged away. John suddenly slowed his steps just as they were passing more of those lit up green algae covered rocks where people were throwing colored sand dollars down and yelling stuff while waving pieces of paper around. Sherlock knew people on Dryland loved paper. They fought over it. They also fought over metal, and according to a strange moving painting on the wall, they also fought over pufferfish*. Add thing to fight over.

John looked agitated by the colored sand dollars and paper.

“Money?” Sherlock asked, trying to be discrete in his pointing as he now understood they were trying to be incognito. He thought the colorful clothes rather detracted from that, but who was he to assume human’s though to of colors the same way as merpeople?

“Yes… No… Sort of… the ##### are money.”

Sherlock waded through that sentence and picked out the most important part, “Chips?”

“The red and black… can you see #####?” John asked.

That was a silly question. John had already pointed out several colors to him, which was why he recognized the words he said despite the word ‘color’ only just having been used.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” John replied, which seemed to be a noncommittal sort of noise, “Well,” another noncommittal noise, “The chips are money. Well, they ######### money.”

“Rep-re-zent.” Sherlock sounded out.

“Yes. They represent money. ######.”

“Sim-bowl.”

“Symbol.”

“Fascinating.” Sherlock insisted, that being his favorite word since John used it to describe him, and stared at what John now called a ‘table’ with new wonder. Odd name for a rock, but apparently they _built_ these things as opposed to them being naturally formed. He suspected even the boat was built, which was a true feat of genius, in his opinion. Being migratory, his people built very little. The caves they lived in from place to place had been carved out by the ocean centuries ago. They had no need to craft, and little means under the ocean.

“Metal?” Sherlock asked, meaning why wasn’t the money made of metal like it had been in stories he’d been told, but John only shrugged in confusion.

Later. They’d sort it all out later; for now he wanted to see more and tugged John elsewhere.

It went like this for the cycle of a moon and sun, but John was starting to look tired and worn. Sherlock’s own people rarely slept, but he supposed John’s people must do so more often. He knew for a fact they were very fragile; he’d have to take good care of his love.

Sherlock tugged John back in the direction of the cave they’d used to rut in, but the man seemed unwilling to return. That made no sense, his things were there; the entire area smelled of him. Finally John relented, rubbing at his eyes and yawning miserably. They headed down, John calling things ‘hallway’ and ‘room’ and ‘cabin’ and finally ‘bed’.

Here they had a bit of a dilemma. John wanted Sherlock to sleep on the ‘floor’ beneath the lowest ‘bed’, but Sherlock wanted to be with _John._ He tried to show his willingness to relinquish his virginity, because surely it was his gentlemanly ways that were holding John back, as Sherlock had noted he was _very_ proper, but the man was insistent he sleep under the beds.

Finally Sherlock stopped pressing his backside against he man’s front and crawled under the bed with a surly scowl to John so he’d know he was cross with him. John apologized profusely, but insisted Sherlock remain beneath the bed. At least the multiple blankets he’d been given made it comfortable, but he recalled the soft press of the bed above them and was more than a bit peeved. Didn’t he warrant someplace comfortable to lie down? Did John think less of him for being willing to mate so soon? They’d been waiting decades! Surely John…

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted as the ‘door’ opened and John frantically shushed him. A female came in, and she started arguing with John, sounding upset and even crying at one point.

It all clicked then. John hadn’t waited for him. He already had a mate, and was reluctant to breed Sherlock until the female was sent off. He had tended to Sherlock’s desires earlier with no small amount of hesitancy, Sherlock was aware of that, but he had thought it shyness until passion overtook the strong man and he’d pinned him down so beautifully. Now he realized it was a sense of responsibility to this _woman_. Well, she could just pack up her smelly things, most of which were blocking Sherlock’s view of the argument, and go find someone else!

Sherlock was about to tell her so when their argument abruptly stopped with John apparently dismissing her. She didn’t leave, however, and just went into the room Sherlock had been shown as being where they all released their waste. She was there for some time (hopefully flushing herself down that toilet thingy) but sadly re-emerged with no ‘shoes’ and different ‘trousers’: thinner, shiny ones. Mating clothes? Did humans have mating clothes? If she tried to seduce his mate…

The female crawled into the bottom bed and Sherlock tensed to emerge, but John took the ladder up to the top one.

Hours passed. Humans apparently slept ridiculous amounts of time. Sherlock slept and woke and was _bored_ out of his _mind_. Finally he decided he could stand it no longer and crawled out from behind the stuff on the floor to stand and stretch his aching muscles. Being human was _painful_. He would be glad when he could take John home.

Speaking of which, was this female still a problem?

Sherlock studied her sleeping face and wondered if throttling her would solve the problem, but John might not appreciate that. Perhaps he could drag her up to the ‘top deck’ and throw her into the water? Humans didn’t survive long in water without the breathing algae, and she could hardly survive the dive to get some. By the time anyone noticed her missing she’d probably be dead, or at the very least warned away from his soul mate.

At that moment Sherlock heard John sigh in his sleep and turn about. Sherlock was instantly drawn to him, watching his face, as he lay relaxed in slumber. John was magnificent; not as beautiful as Sherlock, no, but he was fantastic in his own way. He was compact and muscular and it made parts of Sherlock ache with desire. Sherlock’s own anatomy was strange in this physical form, all on the outside like an arm was, and he was loath to touch himself despite his growing arousal. He decided on a walk to clear his head and do some more exploring. He knew where John slept; he’d find him again later. He’d deal with the female problem later on, when he knew better what to expect from John. Perhaps it had already been dealt with and Sherlock was just misreading the situation.

Sherlock watched more of that painting with the people chasing and ‘kicking’ around the ‘ball’. It was fascinating to watch the way their bodies moved, almost like a school of fish. Sherlock thought it might be dancing, but the cheering and shouting made him think it was some kind of sport. Apparently it was called ‘soccer’, though John had called it something else. A pretty woman bought Sherlock a drink, which he enjoyed, but it made him feel funny so he shook his head and smiled when she offered him more. He thought it might be making him sick. She wanted him to follow her somewhere, so he took her hand and she led him back down to the ‘cabins’. Perhaps John had called for him and this woman was bringing him back? But, no, they’d just passed John’s cabin.

Sherlock paused, pointing back at where he knew John was, and she smiled and let herself be led back again. She’d just gotten lost, then. Probably easy with all these similar looking ‘doors’ everywhere. Sherlock only knew his way by scent, and if the stenches drifting around them were any indication- especially the ones this woman was soaked in- then human’s had very weak senses of smell.

Sherlock opened the cabin door and smiled at the sight of John and the woman still asleep. The woman who had brought him here looked confused, turned a bit red, and tried to tug Sherlock out, but he indicated his mate instead.

“John.” Sherlock whispered, indicating he knew where he was now and was content to stay.

“I don’t do #####-####, mister.”

“Three-ways?” Sherlock asked.

“Or ####-ways.” She shook her head and looked insulted. Sherlock was confused, and her voice was getting too loud.

John woke first and gave Sherlock a confused, and then a hurt look.

Uh, oh. This was _not_ what it looked like! Sherlock held his hands up to John and shook his head, trying to tell him he had the wrong idea, and John looked relieved but still concerned. He clamored down from the bed, but that woke the woman, who took one look at Sherlock and made a very _loud_ word.

“Aaah!” Sherlock echoed, confused by her apparently frightened word. Or was it a scream? Was he being challenged?

The woman who had led him downstairs threw up her arms in apparent disgust and walked away, her feet hitting the floor _very_ hard.

John was trying to calm the woman down, even as he tugged Sherlock inside the cabin and shut the door. The woman was pointing accusingly at Sherlock, who gave her a smug grin to say ‘yes, he’s mine now, get the fuck over it’. She was not taking the hint, however, and he was reconsidering his thoughts on killing her when John simply tugged Sherlock away and out the door. They were walking very fast and John looked upset.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m ## sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, confused as they reached the deck.

“Go back,” John pointed at the water, a pained look on his face. “Swim.”

Sherlock stood there, heartbroken, and tried to figure out what he could say or do to change John’s mind. His eyes were burning and _fluid_ started leaking out of them as he protested. His nose was also hurting a bit; it felt swollen. He must look frightful, but he couldn’t control it and he couldn’t give John up. Not now.

“No. No, John. Stay. You… go.” Sherlock pointed towards the water, the breath in his chest catching painfully.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t go. Sherlock. No water. No swim.” John pointed to himself to indicate he couldn’t swim in the water. Sherlock had thought as much. “Please don’t ###.”

“Cry?” Sherlock asked, his breath catching in his chest again. He gripped John’s arm and tugged him towards the water. “I swim. You swim. All fine.”

“No. Not all fine. Can’t #######.”

“Breathe?” Sherlock asked, confused.

John mimicked taking in air and letting it out dramatically.

“I breathe!” Sherlock insisted, pointing towards the water again.

“I can’t!” John replied, throwing up his arms in exasperation. “I can’t breathe water!”

John’s face was turning ruddy and water was starting to come out of his eyes now, which made Sherlock even more upset. He was about to try to explain to him that there were ways around that, when that woman showed up with several men in matching clothes, pointing at Sherlock and calling him ‘stowaway’. Honestly, was Sherlock so hard to say in their language? Stowaway! John pronounced it much better.

However, the men in matching clothes were much more pressing and Sherlock thought maybe he wouldn’t get back out of gaol all that easily again. Instead he decided to fight back. Taking a deep breath Sherlock let out a challenging scream that had all the men and women nearby shrieking and covering their ears. Their noises were pathetic compared to Sherlock’s though, and he used the distraction to grab John firmly and jump with him into the water.

Pain. Instant pain, and Sherlock released John in favor of ridding himself of the trousers that were stopping his tail from transforming. When he located him again he was treading water just fine, shouting for Sherlock and looking a bit panicked. The human’s on board the ship were making a terrible ruckus, and Sherlock decided now was a very good time to get John far away from the boat. He grabbed John as he’d carried him before and tugged him away from the ship, doing a less than stellar job dodging the lights that were shining down. He’d have to learn enough human speak to ask John how they did that.

Finally he had John far enough away that even the small boats they’d lowered to search for them were unlikely to catch them up. Now he had a dilemma. It was a cloudy night and he couldn’t figure out where he was without either the stars or the ocean floor to help him get his bearings. He was certain of one thing, though, they were too far out for him to haul John to any kind of island.

“Swim?” Sherlock asked John, as he lay once more with the back of his head pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Swim.” John said, sounding a bit sad. Why? Didn’t he _like_ to swim? Who didn’t like to swim?

Sherlock shrugged it off and released John, dropping under water. John floundered, took a mouth full of water, and began to panic. Sherlock caught him again and held him above water.

“Too ####! Too ####!” John shouted.

“Deep?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“Too much water!”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied, then recalled a word he’d learned before he’d met John, “Dolphin!”

“Dolphin?”

“Yes. Dolphin. Wait. Swim.”

Sherlock waited until John had himself situated in the water, then dove beneath the waves and made some dolphin calls. It was a bit before a herd showed, and by the time he surfaced John was already looking tired. Humans really were so very fragile. Sherlock explained the situation to the dolphins and they gamely agreed to keep the sharks away from the human and keep the creature afloat. Sherlock worried they’d get distracted, but he had little choice in the matter. He had to get the breathing algae, and that meant diving deep and searching, possibly for a long time.

“Remember, keep him _safe_. I’ll reward you well if you do.”

“We will! We will!” They cheered happily, and he sincerely hoped they meant it.

“If you don’t I’ll sick a killer whale on you,” Sherlock promised, and that sobered them a bit.

Finally, after making sure John had a secure grip on the dorsal of the oldest, and therefore calmest, of the dolphins, he dipped beneath the water to search for algae. He glanced back once, watching his love being dragged in lazy circles by the oldest dolphin while the younger ones sported around them both, keeping an eye out for predators.

It took Sherlock hours, and the sun was up before he returned to John. John was looking very ill and trembling as he was transferred from the dolphin to Sherlock’s tender arms.

“Don’t ##### me #####.” John whispered, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder despite the fact he got a couple of face full’s of water that way. This was bad. John was becoming weak and his face was very, very red and raw looking.

“Don’t leave me again,” Sherlock repeated back, making his tone comforting. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, but it felt important.

“I won’t.” John assured him, then accidentally gulped water. That was a bit not good. Human’s who drank seawater got sick and died very quickly. He’d seen it before.

“No water!”

“M’ thirsty.”

“No water! Hotdog!”

“Sorry?” John asked, lifting his head finally and giving Sherlock a confused look.

“Hotdog.” Sherlock stated, holding up the algae and pressing it to John’s face. John pulled his head away, a look of disgust on his face.

“I can’t ### that, Sherlock. It’s not ##### ####.”

Sherlock held it to his own mouth and mimed eating, and then pressed it to John’s face again. The man gave him a disgusted look but swallowed the handful down. It took a minute or two to work and then John gasped and clawed at his neck. This dropped him below the water, but Sherlock let him fall. He thrashed a moment, scrabbling at his neck and trying to get to the surface despite the pain in his lungs, then he stilled. Sherlock waited excitedly for the moment John realized he was breathing under water. When it happened he was rewarded with a brilliant smile that lit up John’s face unlike any look he’d seen until then. John laughed, the sound beautiful under water, and then flapped his arms so he could do a few flips. He struggled with the clothes he was wearing and tugged off all of them except the small red ones he kept covering his strange outside sex organs. Sherlock was fine with that. He didn’t find them particularly attractive, not like the rest of the man, and he could understand his reasons for keeping the delicate parts covered with cloth.

Sherlock took John’s hand and tugged him down where he could find a searoad to guide them back to his people.

Along the way John pointed out everything, and Sherlock found their roles reversed as he tried to teach John his language, but John’s vocal chords seemed incapable of making the noises required. John was undaunted, though, and cheerily continued pointing things out. At least he’d be able to understand what was said to him, and Sherlock would interpret the rest. He had no problem whatsoever with caring for his soul mate.

They were almost to his family’s nesting grounds when Sherlock spotted a cave he recognized. It was uninhabited, but only because teenagers regularly marked it with scent to keep other critters away. It was used for mating.

Feeling emboldened Sherlock tugged John down to the cave and guided him inside. His eyes didn’t seem to work as well this deep down and he had trouble finding his way in the dark. Sherlock liked that bit, because it meant John clung tightly to him.

Sherlock felt himself becoming aroused, his member starting to push it’s way out of its sheath in his tail to beg for attention. He slipped a finger inside and fondled his bollocks, hooking the finger to touch the delicate spot behind them. He’d have to learn his lover’s body, but for now he just wanted to get a leg off. John seemed to understand as he tugged him close and pressed kisses to his face and neck. He reciprocated eagerly, his hands stroking along Sherlock’s sides and down to his tail. Sherlock shuddered in excitement. Finally, his love was responsive!

John found Sherlock’s entrance and fingered it, drawing a moan of appreciation from Sherlock. He had always pictured himself as a top, but one look at all those muscles and he’d wanted John inside him instantly. He would happily bear their children if it meant having this powerful man protect him for the rest of his life. Sherlock turned and braced his hands against the walls of the cavern, gripping the protruding rocks, and John pressed against him, slipping a second finger in and scissoring it. John found his prostate quickly and Sherlock gasped and cried out in bliss.

“Fuck that’s good!”

John hummed appreciatively. He couldn’t possibly know what Sherlock had said, but he knew the tone, apparently. John must have decided then that Sherlock was ready, because he pulled out his fingers, grasped Sherlock’s hip, and slowly began to slide inside of him.

Sherlock gasped at the burn, but had to admit he instantly loved it, his own member furiously twitched as he ached for contact, but John wouldn’t be able to give him that until he was fully inside of him. Come to think of it… how…?

John was completely inside of Sherlock, panting a bit against his shoulder and moving the water currents there until they almost tickled. Then he pressed a kiss against his shoulder, pulled out a bit… and floundered helplessly in the water.

Sherlock flinched in embarrassment for him, and John made an attempt to penetrate him again before becoming frustrated and slamming his hand against the wall. Sherlock turned around in concern, catching John’s hand and bringing it close to sniff for blood in the darkened cave. He could only smell a bruise, so he pressed a kiss to it comfortingly. He tugged John close, noting that his member was softening, and kissed his temple as well.

John settled against him a moment, then squirmed loose and turned around.

Well, that wasn’t what Sherlock had in mind, especially since John was more experienced, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn down sex just because he’d pictured himself bottoming. Sherlock helped John position himself against the wall and stroked a finger along the two fleshy globes of John’s arse. He felt so _different_ from Sherlock, but not in a bad way. He was soft and hard and oh so perfect to grab onto. Sherlock used one hand to stimulate John’s privates, hoping he was doing it correctly and sorry he hadn’t given himself a try when he’d been in human form, if only to know what to do. He tried touching John the way he’d touch himself, but it was difficult because his own member moved while John’s was stationary.

Sherlock had managed two fingers inside of John now, and he searched about for that spot that John had so easily found. He was becoming frustrated and feeling embarrassed when John suddenly jolted and grunted in apparent pleasure. His half-mast cock jolted to fully hard and became much easier to stimulate. Sherlock stroked him eagerly now, fingering John enthusiastically and enjoying the man’s soft cries of pleasure.

His own desire was pulsing inside of him, though, and he couldn’t contain it any longer. He slipped his fingers out, pulled his hardened shaft mostly inside of himself by squeezing his internal muscles, lined the tip up with John’s beautifully stretched and twitching hole, then slowly pressed down against his pelvic floor until his throbbing shaft slid out of it’s sheath and into John’s tight body.

Sherlock had expected the tightness, but was completely unprepared for the heat and sucking feeling of John’s channel. He gasped and barely stopped himself from fucking him fast and hard. John had been gentle with him; he would be gentle as well. Once Sherlock was fully inside John he slipped a hand around and stroked his softening prick back to life while canting his hips a bit toward that spot. Then he flexed his internal muscles again and John moaned eagerly. Sherlock couldn’t contain himself any longer, and quickly established a frantic rhythm as his prick thrust in and out of John’s tight heat.

“Oh, god, Sherlock! Oh! Mmmm, yes, hard! Yes!” John cried out.

Now that they had both fallen to passion, John’s body reached that same point it had been in when Sherlock had rescued him from the sinking dolphin boat. His movements became less sharp, his body flowed with the current, and he aligned himself to Sherlock like the missing half that he was. Their bodies moved in sync and Sherlock thought he would die from the joy that filled him.

“Joooohn!” Sherlock moaned, loving that he knew the man’s name finally, “John! John! JOHN!”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back, the pressure was simply too much. He felt his testicles draw up inside of his body, pressing close to his shaft, then he was coming, fast and hard, his member punching shallowly inside of John’s body with absolutely no control to be had.

“Oh, god, yes! Come inside me!”

Sherlock had no idea what he was saying, but the man clearly approved and Sherlock wasn’t going to complain as his body thrummed with pleasure. He’d lost some of the rhythm his hand had maintained while he climaxed, but now he took it up again. John was close, he was sure of it by the sound of the man’s panting, but now that John’s body was finally moving like a merman’s Sherlock thought he knew how to fix the problem they’d been having before. He slipped his shrinking cock free and slipped around in front of John, pressing himself back and impaling himself on John’s member. John was so far gone with lust he simply griped the rocks tighter wrapped both legs around Sherlock’s tail in a warm embrace, and thrust fast and hard into him. Sherlock gasped as his sensitive prostate was hit, but a shift of his hips avoided that, and then John was filling him with hot seed and Sherlock cried out when John did for the sheer pleasure of hearing their voices mingle in the cave.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. 

 

 

*Soccer or football

[ CHAPTER 5 ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/87161.html)   



	5. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 5

John was expecting a brilliant spire-surrounded, glowing castle under the sea. What he got was a deep, dark ravine that he could barely see in filled with glowing eyes peering from caves. Apparently merpeople had glowing eyes and could see in the dark perfectly. John was starting to realize that he was going to be as useless to Sherlock as he was to the rest of the world ever since he’d been infirmed home from Afghanistan and rendered incapable of performing surgery due to his trembling digits. He couldn’t fight sharks with a service revolver under water, he had to be led about by the hand because he couldn’t see and tired quickly, had to eat those horrid algae every 12 hours or so, and apparently was barely capable of having sex with his gorgeous lover.

Sherlock, for his part, was apparently thrilled and went back and forth between his own language and Johns as he swam along, tugging John by his increasingly sore arm. He could hardly complain, though, because his other arm was the one he’d been shot in and it was his right arm or his feet. He wasn’t going to ask to be dragged through Sherlock’s hometown by his ankle. They arrived in what appeared to be a central focus of the tiny city and John admired the abundance of glowing fish that were swimming about in schools, apparently trained to stay in that area and provide light. There were guardlike mermen and women standing about with what appeared to be crossbows. He thought they might be guarding the fish as well as the merpeople. Some small merchildren were playing nearby, entirely androgenous to John’s eyes, but he smiled at them happily nonetheless as they slapped a ball back and forth with their tails.

John turned to get a proper look at Sherlock again, smiling at his cheerful face and admiring his shimmering purple tail. The man – merman - was breathtaking and John was well and truly smitten. He’d do anything to stay with him, and it wasn’t like he had anything to go back to. Perhaps he could get a job guarding this well-lit street. A crossbow couldn’t be too different from a gun when it came to aim, and he was a crack shot. John pointed to the men and tried to explain his interest. Sherlock misunderstood at first; trying to console him that the men wouldn’t hurt him, but eventually understood John wanted to join them. He puffed up with apparent pride in John, beaming, and tugged John over to meet one of them.

Once again, as though it were a running gag, everything went to hell. The men lowered their crossbows at John and Sherlock, causing John to forcefully pull Sherlock behind him, but it was little use as they were quickly surrounded. All of them were mostly silent, and Sherlock looked both resigned and frustrated as he told John they had to wait there.

Eventually an auburn haired merman with a red-orange tail showed up, looking cross with Sherlock, and they got into quite the ear piercing argument. Sherlock swam back to where John was hovering awkwardly on his own, tugged John’s arms around his own waist, and pressed his head back against his forehead. John squeezed Sherlock gently, understanding the problem was with their relationship. Perhaps mermen were not allowed to be with humans? Or other males?

“Myyy<click>rrrr-ofte,” Sherlock introduced the irate merman as.

“Mycroft.” John decided, not bothering to try the high-pitched whine, click, or growling sounds.

“Jawn,” Sherlock introduced, pronouncing his name with his peculiar accent.

“Jawn,” Mycroft acknowledged, scowling a bit. They spent a full minute glaring at each other and John decided he wasn’t backing down; he tugged Sherlock, carefully but firmly, behind him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and his tail lazily kept them in the relative position they’d been in since the men surrounded them.

Mycroft smirked, and it actually looked approving. Then he made some sort of speech that had Sherlock stiffening and clenching John tightly. One of the guards left and everyone stood around sort of staring at them; some looking sympathetic, others angry, and still more curious. The guard returned with a bag woven out of kelp and pressed it into Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock checked the contents, his eyes cold and his lips pressed into a thin line, then grabbed John’s arm and headed off in another direction. The guards let them pass, but two followed closely behind until they’d left the merpeople’s city. That’s when it clicked for John and he flailed his arms and legs to get Sherlock to stop.

“Go back. Leave me. I’ll swim up to the surface,” John pointed, “and hail a ship. You don’t have to leave your people for me. I don’t want you to.”

Sherlock’s response was to secure his kelp bag by slinging it over his head and shoulder so that it dangled at the opposite side much like John would wear a duffle bag.

“No. John come. Now.”

Sherlock’s deep angry tones brooked no argument and John clasped his hand again, kicking his feet a bit to make himself less of a burden to his lover. For several days they traveled, finding caves to rest in and more of those awful algae for John. Sherlock fed him sea creatures and plants, devouring his own with relish and looking worriedly at John when he struggled to get the raw, sometimes barely dead, creatures down. It seemed to fortify his decision and on the third day Sherlock tugged him towards the surface. When land was only a few feet beneath his belly John planted his feet, braced himself for what would likely be a painful emergence, and took his first breath of air. It seemed his instinct to empty his lungs of water first was a good one, because he only coughed and sputtered a bit. He felt horribly heavy, his legs trembling for a bit until he remembered how to work them in an upright position, then he stood steadily and turned in time to see Sherlock surface. He did it gracefully, the excess water simply draining out of his mouth without a gasp or a gag to be seen. The git.

“Wait.” Sherlock stated, then turned to swim back out to sea. John caught at him, though and tugged him into his arms.

“I’ll carry you,” He insisted, realizing that the sand would be both awkward and painful for Sherlock to negotiate with a tail.

Sherlock looked confused, but didn’t protest. In fact, he cried out happily when John scooped him into a bridal carry and started towards shore. They were buffeted by waves along the way, so John jumped them playfully, marveling at how his body understood the sea and it’s motions now. Sherlock laughed and nuzzled his ear, and it would have been the ideal scene for a very sappy romantic movie. Finally John was hauling them both completely out of the water, Sherlock holding perfectly still so as not to unbalance him. He found a bit of tall grass further up the beach and deposited Sherlock comfortably into it before sinking down beside him and hungrily kissing those full lips. They lay together for a while, kissing and caressing, speaking in low tones when they thought they might be understood, before John pulled away to look around himself.

Sherlock was still wearing his garish Hawaiian shirt, though it was much faded from the time spent in the sea. John still had his pants, but they were torn a bit and worse for wear. That was hardly enough to go walking up to civilized life and saying ‘Hey, we jumped off a cruise ship, could we get some help home?’, but it turned out Sherlock had nothing of the sort planned.

They were in a cove that was completely surrounded by cliffs in an arc on three sides, only a bit of vegetation and two lonely trees growing close to the cliffs where the poisonous sea water apparently never reached. The place was entirely untouched to John’s eyes, no graffiti on the cliff side, no litter on the beach, and no sign of footprints in the sand despite the fact it was low tide. Sherlock was watching him from where he lay in the sand, his fins already turned into feet and the rest of him slowly fading from nearly-black-purple to the pale of his alabaster skin.

“God, you’re beautiful.” John breathed, and Sherlock smiled, “Understand that, do you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, running a hand sensually across his chest, “I _am_ beautiful. John beautiful.”

“I’m short, stocky, and wrinkled before my age. I’m not beautiful.”

“John _beautiful_.”

“God, I love you.”

“Love?”

John knelt down beside Sherlock and held one of the merman’s hands to his own chest, letting him feel the riotous beat of his heart. Then he leaned forward and pressed gentle kisses to each of his cheeks and his lips.

“I love you,” John breathed, and Sherlock’s eyes flashed with emotion before he pushed it down as though ashamed.

“I love you,” He repeated back, but it was obviously not mimicry. He meant it.

“I’ve destroyed your life, I don’t deserve you,” John breathed, pressing kisses to his lover’s neck. Sherlock moaned and pressed against him, wanting more.

John pulled back. He had to talk Sherlock out of this. No matter his own selfish desires, he couldn’t live in an isolated cove with the merman for the rest of their lives. They’d go mad. Sherlock would come to resent him. They’d end up hating each other.

“You need to go back, love. I can’t keep you like this. It isn’t right.” John tried to persuade again. Sherlock might not have caught all of that, but his face went from happily aroused to cold anger very quickly.

“No.” He stated, his deep sexy voice forceful as always.

“You’ll hate me eventually. You should be with your own kind.”

“Be with _your_ kind.”

“I haven’t got anything for you to go back to, Sherlock. I haven’t even got a flat. I was kipping on my sister’s couch trying to convince St Barts that I was worthy of their mortuary team. She probably thinks I’m dead by now and has thrown out all my things.”

Sherlock clearly hadn’t gotten all of that, but he simply folded his arms and restated his negative opinion of John’s thoughts.

“No, John. No go. Stay. Together.”

“God, I _want_ to, Sherlock. I do, but it just isn’t…”

Sherlock cuffed him upside the head.

“ _No_. John. No! Stop head! Head… empty!”

“Did you just call me stupid?!” John stammered in surprise.

“Stupid?”

“Empty head? Not use head?” John said, tapping his head and making a cross-eyed face.

“Yes. Stupid John. I use head. You quiet and smile.”

“So I should just sit back and let you do all the thinking, should I?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell, I’m a doctor, you know? Educated? I use my head, Sherlock.”

“No use like Sherlock use.”

“That’s clear as piss!” John stood up, frustrated and a bit relieved by Sherlock’s commanding attitude. He paced for a bit then flopped back down beside the man who was just starting to stretch out his long pale legs.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock smiled: “Now you use head.”

“Bloody hell, if I’m going to spend the rest of my life with a stubborn merman, I suppose it might as well be a gorgeous one with a libido that makes me look ancient and an apparent appreciation for old bone-tired soldiers. Fuck it. Fine. We’re staying together, and on that note. I’m ravaging you.”

Sherlock was apparently amenable to the idea and a few minutes later found them with their heads in each other’s laps, sucking happily while fondling each other’s bollocks. Sherlock came first again, John barely able to stop the enthusiastic young merman from fucking his throat raw, and John spilled himself into his lover’s mouth shortly after, brought over the edge by the thought of how attractive the merman found him. He’d never felt so _desirable_ as when Sherlock peered at him in that curiously studious way that meant he was contemplating how to get John out of the final barrier of clothes he wore. Half the time when Sherlock looked at him like that he simply dropped the pants and jumped on him.

They spent several days and nights like this, exploring each other’s bodies and finding all new ways to thrill each other. John found out that nothing turned Sherlock on more than being eaten out – whichever orifice John chose to do so. Both Sherlock’s opening for his merman privates and his rear entrance in either form were sites of apparently unequaled desire when touched in any way. John also found that Sherlock’s body self lubricated, more so in merman form than in human form, and he required only a little stretching in either form. He had at first been hesitant to taste this slick substance, but when he found it tasted like sweat or sea brine, rather than fishy as he’d dreaded, it soon became his favorite taste and he delved into it often and with enthusiasm.

Sherlock was absolutely gorgeous laid out on the smooth boulders near the edge of their little cove, his body splashed by the waves, his smooth, not-quite rubbery, tail glistening in the setting sun. John would press his face into the apex of his tail muscles, tongue delving into that little slit to locate his bollocks and stimulate them fast and hard, suckling at Sherlock’s natural juices as his fist made a passage for the merman’s frantically thrusting cock. Sherlock’s member would drill into his hand while he shouted out his pleasure and John would listen to the waves, holding his breath as they crested over their bodies but never stopping the movements of his tongue. When Sherlock was desperate, when he was on the edge of climaxing, he’d finally lift his head, tilt Sherlock back, and watch his love lay sprawled out before him as he thrust fast and hard into his tight body, his purple tail convulsing where it lay over his good shoulder. The cerulean waves would splash across Sherlock’s body, covering his flushed face as he gasped in air or water, shuddering in pleasure, his own hand aiding himself towards completion. If John were lucky the waves would be out when Sherlock came and he’d get to see the white arc that accompanied the clench of his internal muscles, leaving John grunting out his own release into that spasming tight chamber. Then they would sink into the water, letting them bob up and down with the waves, as Sherlock stroked John’s hair and he held the stunning creature close.

Like all good things it simply couldn’t last, and eventually their debauched days and nights were interrupted by John’s own mind turning violently against him. He didn’t know what triggered it; guilt for Sherlock’s lost world, worry over his sister in England, the fact they slept by day and moved about by night throwing off his internal clock, or even a simple lack of routine besides the turn of the earth. Whatever the cause, John woke one night with absolutely no ability to move his body, his mind a despondent aching abyss of self-hatred and disgust. He curled up when Sherlock returned from the sea with food and refused to respond to the man when he tried to rouse him to eat and drink the fresh water he’d gathered from the small stream that trickled down from the cliff above them. John’s nighttime fire, the wood supplied by whatever Sherlock had gathered during the day and dried in the sun while John slept, had gone out, and the bugs and darkness were gathering close to torment him.

Sherlock called his name over and again, petting his hair even when John tried to push him away, and seemed ready to wait out whatever he was going through. Part of John hated Sherlock for being so determined to stay with him, but deep down inside of him, where the tears were allowed to flow, he clung to that hope as a lifeline in the hollow fissure that was his own personal hell.

[CHAPTER 6](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/87412.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 6

Sherlock knew depression when he saw it, though he had rarely ever seen someone so intensely clinically depressed before. He was afraid to leave John for the length of time it would take to fetch him food, for fear he’d kill himself, but he knew he couldn’t leave the man to starve and the contents of their cove would quickly be exhausted. He did manage to catch a bird or two by use of a net, which seemed to cheer John a bit since he was clearly tired of seafood. As he’d been doing with the fish, he built up a fire, stripped the bird of feathers, stuck them on a stick, and heated them up. Sherlock had tried the fish that John had cooked in this way and found them tasteless, but if it made John happy to eat his foot hot and rubbery then he wasn’t going to interfere just because he thought it a foolish practice.

Instead Sherlock gathered up the feathers John had discarded and carefully stowed them in his bag. He went for a walk, then, content that John was distracted by the change of diet. He studied the cliff and surrounding beach and found a few things they could use. A wandering crab was captured alive for a later meal, he stowed it in a basket he’d made for that purpose and dangled it in a small salt-water filled rock basin that replenished itself every night during high tide. Some pretty stones were collected, Sherlock finding quite the stash of pretty blue ones. They weren’t the color he wanted, but it was enough to be going on with. He found some shells, as well, though this beach didn’t have an abundance of them. A dead starfish was collected soon after. He waded into the shallows, dropping to his belly when his tail emerged and gathered some seaweed for their meal with the crab. He even managed to capture a fish that had gotten tangled in the bramble. These all went into the ocean basin, which he now had to drag himself up to via the rocks. He stretched out to dry, peering around to watch John from his perch. John had finished ‘cooking’ the birds and was curling up to go to sleep again. He missed the times during the night when John would stay awake with him and play games in the water or do ‘pull ups’ on the low hanging branch of one of their trees; the moonlight playing on his muscles a source of pulsating desire for him. John had a small shelter built for when it rained, and he now spent almost all of his time inside of it, ignoring Sherlock and sighing a lot. Sometimes, when he thought Sherlock was too busy or far away to notice, he would make strange gasping and choking noises. Once Sherlock had crept close, convinced his love was masturbating (without him!) only to find that there was water leaking from his eyes. He understood this to be that word ‘cry’ but didn’t understand further than that. He thought it was something humans did when they were upset.

Once Sherlock had his legs back under him, he scooped up his findings and went to show John, shaking him awake. Once John blinked at him blearily Sherlock started demanding words for what he’d found. John filled in his vocabulary, but soon became cross with him and rolled over stubbornly to resume his unfulfilling sleep. Sherlock had suspected that would happen, so he headed out into the sandy area just in front of the grass and began to work. It took him hours to create what he wanted for John, but his timing couldn’t have been more perfect as the sea retreated, the sun rose, and John staggered out to the edge of the water to relieve himself. On his way back he spied what Sherlock had created for him and froze in place, staring gape-mouthed at the mural he’d created in the now-drying sand. It wouldn’t last, of course, but it was important that John see what he wanted.

The feathers were their hair, light belly feathers for John’s blonde and the darker tail and wing feathers for Sherlock’s. The blue stones were Sherlock’s tail, and the palest shells his torso and arms. Tan stones made up John’s body and limbs. They were naked and wrapped around each other in the throws of love making, though there was little detail to convey that besides the imagination. Grass had been arranged in a careful pattern to appear to be the sea, waves washing over their bodies.

Water flowed down John’s face and he gathered Sherlock close, pressing kisses to his face and telling him over and again that he loved him. Sherlock buried his head against his lover’s shoulder and echoed his words, occasionally adding his own in his own language when what he needed to say was simply not enough for his limited vocabulary.

“Need learn more.” Sherlock explained, touching his lips with his fingers. “John help?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll help, love. I’m sorry I’ve been so #######.”

“Distant? Sad?”

“Distant means far away, but yes, sad.”

“John water?” Sherlock said, touching the wetness on his face.

“#####. I’m crying. I’m sad, Sherlock, I don’t know why, but I am.”

“Tears? No am… be? No be sad, John. I love you. Stay with Sherlock.”

  
“I’m not going anywhere you don’t take me, love.” John promised, and Sherlock knew it for what it was.

_I won’t kill myself. I won’t leave you alone._

Sherlock felt ‘tears’ on his own face as he pressed his forehead into John’s shoulder. They spent the next month increasing Sherlock’s vocabulary, going so far as to teach him to read and write in ‘English’. Once John got numbers across Sherlock proudly showed him how intelligent he was, breaking out the higher maths he had learned in school as a merchild. John wasn’t just impressed; he was amazed and called Sherlock ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’.

They made love again, finally, and it felt as though it had been an eternity. Sherlock straddled John’s hips and rode him like a dolphin, writhing on his cock as John panted and grasped at his hips hard enough to leave bruises.

“Oh, god, yes!” John cried out, which seemed to be a rather kinky nickname for Sherlock since John mostly used it during sex, and he came deep inside of Sherlock’s clenching body.

Sherlock shouted John’s name and watched in glee as his own seed arced and splattered across John’s chest. This was something you couldn’t see in the ocean and it amazed him to watch himself climax. They stumbled out to the ocean then, which wasn’t far since it was night and the tide was in, they splashed and played and laughed together again; Sherlock marveling in his lover’s ability to become his old self again.

Sherlock resolved to make sure John didn’t become depressed again. He was certain he could do so by getting them back to ‘civilization’. Now that he was virtually fluent in English he was going to do just that. Once John threw himself down into the grass to relax after their play Sherlock told him he had to go get supplies and declined John’s offer to carry him back to the water. Instead he dried as John fussed with the fire and hummed happily to himself. His love was cooking the fish Sherlock had brought him earlier, and he now felt secure enough to attempt his little plan. Sherlock carefully slipped to the far side of the cliff where he knew John’s vision was limited. He climbed the cliff face, having mapped this endeavor out in his mind for weeks on end, and soon pulled himself up to the grassy surface. The rock was weak here, but he managed it with only a few rather nasty cuts. The cuts were important. They were a part of his plan.

Then Sherlock stood at a roadside about a mile from their little abode and waited. Once a car appeared he seemingly staggered out in front of it, waving his hands and thinking frantically of what it would be like if John died. It worked. When the occupants of the vehicle stopped and peered out Sherlock was sobbing brokenly, his face smeared with dirt, tears, and snot, and waving back towards the cliff.

“We were shipwrecked! Please! My boyfriend… we’ve been down there for months!”

The occupants were a young man and woman, both dark-skinned natives, the latter who looked a bit afraid of him and seemed to be cautioning her young man to stay away from Sherlock.

“Please, we’re from England, where are we? Do you speak English? Has anyone seen our friends? We lost track of them when our boat sank.”

“What were their names? Maybe we’ve seen them,” The young man asked, still maintaining his distance.

“Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock picked names from his pod, easily making them sound English, “They were on our boat. It sank off the coast of the Caribbean. Where are we?”

“Still in the Caribbean, but I haven’t heard of any ships sinking lately. What happened to your clothes?”

Sherlock glanced down, pretending to just have noticed: “We had to kick them off to stay afloat. They were weighing us down. You haven’t heard of my friends, then?”

“No, those names haven’t been in the news or anything, and tourists washing up on shore, alive or otherwise, would make the news for sure.”

Sherlock pretended to despair then, dropping to the ground and sobbing, his arms wrapped around himself, showing off his bleeding elbows and the gash he’d gotten on his temple. The woman reacted this time, stepping forward and wrapping a towel around Sherlock’s shaking shoulders.

“What’s your name?”

“Sh…Sherlock. My boyfriend… John… He’s down that cliff…” Sherlock pointed towards the area he’d come from, “He was too weak to climb up it.”

“You climbed Dewer’s cliff? Shit.” The young man stated, and Sherlock almost didn’t recognize the curse through his accent.

“It’s taken me a month to reach the top. I kept trying and falling. I sprained an ankle and was laid up for a while. John had to get me food, that’s why he’s so weak. There’s nothing down there to eat. We’ve been living on seaweed and whatever we could catch. Boats don’t even pass there so we couldn’t wave anyone down. We tried shouting but…” Sherlock waved his hand helplessly.

The woman rubbed his shoulders and the young man went to get his mobile to phone for help, his voice a sharp staccato of foreign words as he relayed the information in his own language. The woman explained what Sherlock already knew, that the cliff was unapproachable by boat due to a large shark and other such creature infested reef surrounding that half of the island. Boats could only land on the opposite side of the island where the reef was thin and had been broken through by early pioneers.

“This whole island is surrounded by the reef, some people say it _is_ a reef and that the soil just washed up from a storm.”

_Well, of course it is. Idiot._ Sherlock thought, but kept it to himself since it was unlikely that her people and his had the same history class.

(For your amusement, this is an island made from a coral reef http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live/photos/000/014/cache/fij-islands_1405_600x450.jpg)

“They’re going to send a helicopter to the cliff and lower a man down to rescue your boyfriend,” The young man explained, handing Sherlock a plastic bottle of water. Sherlock downed it greedily.

“Thank you, thank you both so much. I… I need to be with them. He had a nasty bash to the head. He gets confused.”

The young man gave him a worried look, but relayed the information. After a few hours a truck with bright flashing lights appeared and Sherlock was handed some trousers and loaded inside. He was lowered back down to the cove in the helicopter and hurried up to a very distressed John who threw his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly.

“Play along!” Sherlock shouted into his ear, and then led John back to the man who was waiting near the water with two harnesses for John and Sherlock. He helped them step in, Sherlock grateful the helicopter was pushing the water back so that he didn’t transform, though he did feel the souls of his feet turning slick, and they were dragged upwards in a most dizzying and (in Sherlock’s opinion) exhilarating experience.

They were packed into a hospital, checked over by doctors, and had hot drinks and lots of water pressed on them. John devoured the sandwiches he was offered but Sherlock only picked at them. Then the questions started and John played dumb and confused, which was exactly what Sherlock had known he would do once he’d told him to ‘play along’.

“I’m sorry, he took a nasty bump to the head when our boat sank. It’s all a bit of a blur to me, too.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. I’m from… from…” Sherlock wrinkled his forehead and tried to look baffled. “I’m from England… John?”

Sherlock favored John with a panicked look and John echoed it back.

“London, I think.” John replied, “No, that’s where I’m from. Did we meet there?”

“I don’t recall. Bloody hell, I don’t remember!”

Sherlock’s name was searched through databanks and turned up nothing, which was no surprise. An official from England showed up to ask them questions once John’s fingerprints and name showed who he was.

“Perhaps Sherlock is a pseudonym or a nickname? Do you ever recall going by anything else?” The official asked.

Sherlock thought a moment, then pointed at John: “He calls me ‘oh, god, yes’, but I rather think that’s not a real name.”

It apparently wasn’t because John burst out laughing and apologized to the blushing official.

“He does that sometimes,” John explained, “Acts like he hasn’t heard of something obvious, but then he’ll just spout out things that are utterly fantastic. Ask him about trigonometry. He outdoes me, even though I’ve managed to retain my university days fairly clearly.”

As Sherlock had expected from John’s descriptions of them, the media got a hold of their stories fast and it became hot news as they aired across the world, asking if anyone knew who these two lost men were. Harry spoke up quickly, claiming John, but no one stepped forward to acknowledge Sherlock, who continued the whole ‘we met on a boat and fell in love while surviving after being shipwrecked’ spiel. It became a romantic sensation, and Sherlock soon found the English government playing along and helping him ‘re-establish’ his lost identity. It was going better than he’d planned. He had originally hoped some nut would claim him as family, but though many had called in saying they’d seen him here or there in parts of the UK, no one had actually called him kin.

“I remember being very alone,” Sherlock told one reporter, “but it’s all so vague. I don’t think I had anyone until John pulled me on shore and resuscitated me after we nearly drowned at sea. He gave me _life_ and a reason to live.”

John looked fit to gag on his story, but smiled gamely and held Sherlock’s hand, and told the reporters that his sister was going to help them get situated back in England.

“Once I have a job we’ll get a flat. Then it’s just a matter of Sherlock taking a few tests so they can give him a fresh diploma. Despite missing chunks of his life, he’s really quite brilliant. I think he’ll be making more money than me in no time, though my sister… Harriet? Yeah, she says I was a doctor in the army.”

The army who came through in spades, horrified by what had happened to one of their own so shortly after being invalided home as a hero, provided tickets back home for Sherlock and John and handed over his piled up pension money as fast as their paper pushers could manage it. John and Sherlock found themselves on English soil in almost no time flat, being surrounded by the local media who were frantic to get a word in now that they finally had their ‘heroes’ home.

“Any word on your missing friends?”

“None,” Sherlock replied, “We really didn’t know them aside from the boat ride, at least that’s as far as we recall, but everything is still a bit of a blur. I hope there’s no one out there still waiting for them to come home, because it’s all rather hopeless by now. I suppose this should be a lesson for tourists who think they can manage a boat ride without a guide. John and I are lucky to be alive.”

Sherlock tossed himself down on the couch in Harriet Watson’s flat and threw an arm over his face. It was exhausting keeping up pretenses around all those people. He had smiled and fake-cried until his entire face hurt. John lifted his legs and sat down on the end of the sofa, putting Sherlock’s feet in his lap and massaging them for him. Sherlock groaned gratefully; John knew how much walking and standing hurt his unaccustomed muscles and bones.

“You were brilliant, Sherlock. Really fantastic.” John soothed, pressing hard at a particularly painful spot on his foot. Sherlock groaned and nodded his agreement. “Your ID is here, but you’ll have to get some testing done. They’ve got an entire medical team ready to look you over and try to help you get your memory back. I’m a bit leery about that. Do you think they’ll notice anything #####?”

“Amiss?” Sherlock asked, always annoyed when he stumbled across a word he still didn’t know.

“Figure out you’re not exactly human,” John amended.

“Oh, no. We’re descended from human’s who ate the algae you’ve had and started living under water. I think your people call us ‘Atlantians’. We should be practically identical as long as no one splashes me with water. Your descriptions of human biology has confirmed that enough for me to be comfortable with your doctors.”

“Bloody hell,” John breathed.

Harry came into the room then, smelling of something that had clearly gone bad and been consumed anyway.

“So, what’s the _real_ deal with you two, anyway?” Harry asked.

“You’re drunk again? Harry, it’s half past ten in the morning,” John scolded.

“Piss off if you don’t like it. I haven’t got room for you two love birds anyway,” Harry staggered off and Sherlock peered after her in annoyance. He didn’t like the woman.

“Did you see the story my therapist put out? She lost her license because of it,” John asked.

“You mean the one where she tried to prove I wasn’t English and backed it up by saying you two were lovers on a cruise and you ran away with me after I tricked you into believing I was a merman?” Sherlock asked, frowning jealously.

John winced, “We weren’t, you know. Though looking back I think she _was_ trying to seduce me, but I was so busy avoiding her I missed it. Serves her right, I suppose, trying to take advantage of a patient. I thought it was odd to take an aquaphobic man on a cruise. She was probably thinking I’d curl up in her bunk for comfort.”

“Bitch,” Sherlock decided, which earned him a pinch from John.

“I’m sorry I ever taught you swears. You curse like a sailor.”

“I sort of am,” Sherlock smirked and John rolled his eyes.

“This is the hard part, you know. Getting reacquainted with life. We’re going to have to figure out how to survive here. I can get a job, I think, pretty easily. My old mate, Stamford from university, says he can help me get a job at Barts again, in the mortuary. If you pass the tests they want to give you, you might get a job there, too. I figure you’re basically a genius, so you’ll get yourself situated in a few years. Until then you might have to mop floors or something.”

“Clean? No. Not really my area.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

“I’m going to talk to the police. I liked that detective we spoke to… Lestrade? I was discussing a case with him and he had it all wrong. This sweet lady, reminded me of my mum, bless her, was being abused by her husband. While they were on holiday in Florida… I think that’s in America… the fool killed a maid in the hotel they were staying in and tried to pin it on her. Lestrade’s been going back and forth with the American police over it, trying to keep her from being something called ‘extradited’. I pointed out a few things that he hadn’t noticed and he was… ‘over the moon’?”

“Mhmm,” John acknowledged his proper use of the term, smiling proudly.

“Right, well, he said if I had any more brilliant ideas I should phone him again.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock warmly, assuring him he’d support them both until Sherlock got settled and found something he wanted to do. Sherlock ignored the worry in John’s eyes. He’d figure it all out soon enough.

A few months later, while they’d been rotting in a bedsit that barely accommodated one of them let alone two and had only a shower (a complete inconvenience to Sherlock who couldn’t enjoy it with his tail extended) a Mrs. Hudson paid them a visit.

She was a cheerful, if fluttery thing, and told them she had a flat she was willing to let to them for a significantly reduced price in thanks of saving her from an American prison. She was the woman Sherlock had helped on a case with, and she practically claimed him as a son the moment she laid eyes on him. John and Sherlock hurried to pack up and moved in that day, happily settling themselves into the spacious flat. Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom for an hour, soaking in the tub and singing happily as he scrubbed his tail down with a soft brush.

Life was looking up, and it only continued to rise cheerily above the crest of the waves when Lestrade texted him with a case.

[CHAPTER 7](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/87656.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 7

It wasn’t long before Sherlock found out that human males weren’t capable of bearing children. In fact he found out after John explained to him that they wouldn’t need a nursery if they just adopted an older child, which would avoid diapers and other such mess. John then had to explain diapers to Sherlock who was mortified and wanted to know why humans didn’t just move into the ocean. John had laughed.

Still, Sherlock knew that mermen were perfectly capable of reproduction of either sort, so he got the nursery ready anyway, happily visiting thrift shops to pick up baby furniture and odds and ends, most of which Mrs. Hudson had to explain the use of to him. Mrs. Hudson seemed to take Sherlock’s odd nature in stride, only jumping the first time he brought body parts home from St. Barts and put them in the fridge for her to find.

Months passed and still Sherlock did not fall pregnant, but their lives continued to steadily improve as Sherlock solved first cold cases and then more high profile cases for Lestrade. Eventually other detectives started seeking his opinions, despite the fact most of them clearly hated him. John had started a blog about Sherlock’s ‘adventures’ and followed him on cases to provide medical data, curb Sherlock’s sharp tongue, and keep the nutter safe.

Eventually, Sherlock was feeling tense enough about his continued state to seek help and slipped away early one morning before John awoke to visit his people. It was a long train ride to the shore, and his own clan was not in the area yet, so he sought help from a clan of strangers. They were leery of him at first; noting that he seemed different than them, but he soon convinced them that he was harmless and they took him to their healer.

The healer looked him over with grave concern when he expressed his inability to have offspring and how long he had been attempting it.

“Have you transformed recently?”

“I transform daily,” Sherlock replied deciding to be honest, “I live on Dry Land with a human mate. He’s my soul mate.”

The doctor looked alarmed, but didn’t question his choices, which was a relief to Sherlock.

“You won’t be able to maintain a pregnancy if you transform, Sherlock,” the doctor explained, “You have to be in this form the entire time.”

Sherlock was horrified, wondering if he’d unintentionally terminated a pregnancy at some point, but the doctor told him it was doubtful the pregnancy even had time to take if he transformed regularly. Instead he suggested Sherlock talk to the clan chief to find out if it would be all right for Sherlock and John to join _them_ since his own clan had tossed him out. The doctor took him to see the chief, explaining the medical reasons behind their difficulty. The clan chief was sympathetic, but concerned about how safe it would be to have a human amongst them. He wanted to meet John, someplace neutral, so Sherlock left to arrange it.

Sherlock had utilized a beach locker to store his belongings with the exception of his swim trunks, which he had hidden beneath a pile of rocks; he located those now and donned them once his legs had re-emerged. Once at the locker he slipped the key he’d tied to a string off his neck and unlocked it, grateful his phone still had enough power left after the two days he’d left it there while back in the ocean.

He had numerous messages from John, all wanting to know where he was and when he was coming back, but he disregarded them and sent one of his own asking John to come to the ocean to talk to his healer.

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Are you ill?**

**To: John Watson  
Not as such. **

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Be there in two hours.**

Sherlock explained the reasoning to John on their way back to their healer and it resulted in a stupendous fight. Apparently John had suspected Sherlock would be incapable of getting pregnant while transforming each day and had said nothing. He was afraid of Sherlock getting pregnant, how they would hide it, and how they would explain a child appearing.

Sherlock was livid and swam off, leaving John alone and lost in the ocean. John searched for Sherlock for hours, gave up on that and searched for the shore, but they were far enough out that John knew he wouldn’t be able to get back on his own. John eventually felt the telltale signs that his algae was wearing off and surfaced. He swam as hard as he could towards the nearest ship and hailed it.

The vehicle turned out to be a small research vessel and a Professor Moriarty and his assistant Moran were manning the craft alone. <http://img.nauticexpo.com/images_ne/photo-g/scientific-research-boat-oceanographic-28010-3179993.jpg>

“You might have drowned, lad,” Moriarty chirped, despite the fact he was a good decade younger than John.

“It wasn’t my finest moment. I guess I’m not in the shape I thought I was,” John replied sheepishly

“What were you doing, trying to swim from Clacton to Margate? Is that race on again?” Moran asked as he passed John some towels.

“Something like that, but I seem to have lost my way.”

“We’re not far from Clacton-on-Sea, we’ll drop you off,” Moriarty offered charitably.

“Southminster, actually, but I suppose I could hoof that distance.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Moran laughed, “We’re not going to leave you to get yourself in another situation. We’d feel responsible if you ended up on the evening news.”

They were well on their way when Moriarty suddenly shouted at Moran to cut the engine, which he did before rushing out to see what Moriarty had spotted from the deck. John joined them, highly curious, and felt his gut clench as a familiar fin disappeared beneath the waves.

“Was that it?” Moran asked excitedly.

“Yes, unless we need to pull another swimmer out of the water,” Moriarty replied, giving John a suspicious look.

“There’s someone out there?” John asked in mock concern, scooping up another set of binoculars and peering out at sea. He saw Sherlock’s curls floating on the water but the merman ducked down again quickly.

“Should we circle or check the sonar?” Moran asked, all business.

“Sonar, I think. It knows we spotted it, so it will likely dive,” Moriarty decided.

“You think it’s that intelligent?” Moran scoffed.

“They’ve avoided us for years, Seb, of course I think it’s intelligent.”

Moriarty skulked off and Moran gave John a shrug before joining him inside the cabin. They were peering at some sonar and going over readouts, typing away at a computer with soft murmurs the only communication between them; it was clear they had worked together for a long time.

“I had no idea there were dolphins this close in,” John offered hopefully.

“There aren’t,” Moran and Moriarty replied together.

“Then what else out there is smart enough to elude you?” John asked quietly.

“None of yo…” Moran started.

“Mermaids,” Moriarty replied flatly.

John laughed, “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“I’m entirely serious. I’m a marine biologist and I’ve discovered a form of algae that allows _human beings_ to breathe underwater. This discovery along with some strange bones and underwater markings have lead me to believe that the lost city of Atlantis may be history as opposed to mythology. I merely have to catch one to prove my theory.”

“That’s impossible,” John replied with a derisive snort.

“Which part?” Moriarty asked while Moran sighed and rolled his eyes.

“All of it, especially the algae part.”

“Once ingested it changes they way our bodies process chemicals in a similar way that ingesting certain pharmaceuticals changes the way we think. Breathing is merely a chemical process: oxygen in and carbon dioxide out. We breathe in other molecules along with the oxygen; we breathe on average 78.08% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, 0.93% argon, 0.038% carbon dioxide, trace amounts of other gases, and around 1% of water vapor. Change the way we process those chemicals and you’ll change the way you breathe- and what you breathe. It’s elementary.”

“I know someone else who says that a lot,” John laughed, “Usually he makes me feel about as dense as you just did. All right, so I give: breathing water is possible, but even if there are people under the water, living there by eating this algae, what makes you think they have tails and sing sailors to their deaths?”

“Oh, I’m sure a great deal of that is fiction, but some of it is bound to be true. Most myths have a basis in fact; it’s simply a matter of discovering how much. As for the tails, that is likely true due to the evolutionary process. A human underwater would be quite vulnerable without a way to move around quickly and gracefully like the majority of the predators. They would adapt, and a tail is the most likely adaptation after the ability to breathe without the algae.”

“What will you do if you catch one?” John asked, trying to still sound as though he only half believed.

“Study it, dissect it, publish my findings,” Moriarty stated proudly.

John was horrified, “But… but you just said they were human.”

“Descended from humans, they’ve long since left our gene pool. I doubt breeding with them is even possible. They’re no more human than are chimpanzees,” Moriarty gave John a disgusted look, as though he’d thought of attempting to breed with a chimpanzee, and then growled in frustration and stalked back out onto the deck.

“You took that all well,” Moran mentioned softly.

“I’m a pretty accepting person,” John shrugged, “I was in Afghanistan for a while. You learn to adapt there, too.”

Moran gave him an appraising look and followed after Moriarty. John gave himself a moment to panic and tugged frantically at his hair. He had to get to Sherlock and warn him, but the algae had long since worn off and it was too deep for him to fetch it himself. He tried to recall if he’d given the men his full name, but he’d only said Watson. Hopefully that wouldn’t be enough for them to track him down.

Slipping out the door while the men were preoccupied staring out into the water, John slipped silently over the opposite side and into the water. Once there he took a deep breath, dove under the surface, and let out a shout.

“Sherlock they’re hunting you! Run!”

John surfaced, took a deep breath and dove under again, intending on shouting further instructions, only to have his mouth stuffed full of algae. John chewed it as he surfaced again, swallowing it quickly before pausing to wait for it to take effect.

“Decided to finish your swim, Watson?” Moriarty asked, his voice cold and calculating.

John looked up into a gun pointed directly at his face.

“What are you doing?” John asked, pretending shock.

“Waiting for you to be a good little fish and flop back up on my deck.”

“I’m not a fish, and I’m not a merman,” John held the side and lifted one leg above the surface, “See? No tail.”

“That was only _one_ hypothesis, _my_ _dear_. Now _do_ come on board again. I’d hate to have to _kill_ you before I can actually _study_ you.”

John tried to weigh his options, but the man clicked the safety off and John started to climb aboard. Until Sherlock’s tail shot up from the water and slapped the gun from the man’s hand. It went off in the air before dropping into the water. Sherlock grabbed John and pulled him under.

John held his breath for as long as he could as Sherlock sped off like a shot with John trailing behind him by the ankle. Once he was seeing spots he breathed out and then gasped water in. It burnt a bit, but soon he was easily breathing the water around him.

“That man knows about the algae! He knows you all exist!”

“I know, I heard. We can hear most things spoken inside ships. It’s like talking into a can on a string. I have to warn my people. We need to find a killer whale. Preferably one that isn’t hungry.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t say it would be easy. We can start with the clan I spoke to a day ago. They’ll help spread the word.”

“Then what?”

“Then we go home. I’m not risking you down here with someone hunting us, especially now he’s seen your face and knows your name. Dry Land is safer.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because there not many people are as fanciful as Professor Moriarty.”

[CHAPTER 8](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/88057.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 8

John did his best not to let how terrified he was of the whale, but it wasn’t easy. The creature was gigantic, and while he’d often enjoyed seeing them do tricks in shows, there was no denying that this was a predator. Sherlock made low moaning and high keening noises and the whale replied in ways that made Free Willy sound like an old sound reel from the very first ‘talkies’. Finally, the whale left, it’s very _loud_ cries echoing through the sea and trembling through their blood. Then John found his hand snatched and he was being tugged through the waves, held under each arm by his lover as they swam fast and hard through the salty water. When they broke the surface again they were just off shore, but Sherlock swore when he saw some teenagers riding on four-wheelers on the beach.

“We’ll have to wait till sundown,” Sherlock sighed.

“I know a great way we could spend the time if you’ll get me more of that algae,” John flirted, giving Sherlock’s adipose fin a stroke.

Sherlock gasped in arousal and gave John a hungry look, but then suddenly looked uncomfortable: “Only if I can top,” Sherlock stated, “I don’t like the idea of killing our children every time I transform.”

John winced and looked away miserably, “Yeah, I see your point.”

XXX

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s cheek and vanished beneath the waves to get John more algae. Once he’d found some they swam beneath the waves and curled up in a sea cave together with John pressed down against the sand. Sherlock grasped a rock on either side of him as he plunged into John’s hard body, his head thrown back in pleasure while John looked up at him with wide eyes. He panted and moaned, legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s waist, his skin rubbing his sensitive scales until Sherlock was aching for release. It had been so _long_ since they’d last made love in this form, but Sherlock couldn’t help but hold back and it took even his advanced mind to find a reason why.

_This is the last time_ , Sherlock realized, _I’ll never hold him like this again._

Sherlock cried out as he came, hating himself for giving into physical pleasure when he knew now what was at stake. Beneath him, John arched and moaned as he shivered through his own orgasm, and Sherlock took in the sight like a starving man taking in a meal.

_Remember this. Remember it forever. Store it in the most secure part of your mind palace where you’ll never lose it, because you’ll never see him like this again._

John sighed in bliss and stroked his hands through Sherlock’s floating curls, his eyes filled with love. He was completely oblivious to Sherlock’s unease and Sherlock wasn’t about to clue him in. Instead he gently eased back and smiled softly at his lover’s expression.

“You are a beautiful human,” Sherlock spoke softly.

“You are a beautiful merman,” John replied with a tender look.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock told him, grasping both sides of his head and allowing them to float on the current so he could make sure John saw the sincerity in his face.

“I love you, too,” John laughed, “What’s gotten into you? That bugger scare you?”

Sherlock jumped on the excuse, “Yes. I never want to see someone point a gun at you again.”

“Now you know how I felt when that Hope fellow pointed one at you,” John scolded lightly, kissing Sherlock’s nose.

They smiled and joked a bit, going back over cases and pointing out various ideas and reasoning. John expressed his unequaled admiration for Sherlock over and again and Sherlock soaked it up like coral soaked up sunrays. When darkness fell they snuck to shore and John helped Sherlock onto the grass to dry off in comfort. He lit a small fire to warm Sherlock and speed the process while he donned his previously hidden clothes. Sherlock’s legs made their reappearance and he stood to dress while John watered and stamped out the fire.

“What do we do when we get home?” John asked, “Tell Lestrade? I think we can trust him, don’t you?”

“Tempting, but I make it a point not to trust anyone I don’t have to.”

“So what, then? We find out more about Moriarty?”

“As much as possible. We can use Lestrade’s systems without him finding out, I’m sure. I’ll just ask him for some cold cases and then hack in from his desk.”

“That works, though I still wish you’d just tell him.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied noncommittally.

Once they returned to Baker Street John collapsed into bed while Sherlock sat down at his laptop and looked for information on Moriarty. Moriarty’s website was the first on the list when he typed in ‘Mermaids are real’. It read like a religious sight, filled with ‘proof’ that mermaids existed, including several videos from various sites that were meant to support his theories. Sherlock clicked on them one at a time and watched each.

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuXPdQqMYW0>

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogEbrEc_5OA>

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvsXiryu8jA>

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22PMBbxZa1U>

Then he looked over a gallery of images.

<http://ibelieveinmermaids.com/>

<http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_huavtnNAMf8/SJSmQOAEkcI/AAAAAAAAAbg/k0zAvb63LnI/s400/mermaid1_2.jpg>

<http://z6mag.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/chennai-mermaid-from-tsunami.jpg>

<http://cdn.grindtv.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/large-photo-.jpg>

Finally he read the personal biography of one Professor James Moriarty, who appeared to be as mad as he had feared.

“I first started searching for them after a tsunami hit Channai, India in 2004. The corpse of a mermaid was found there, but of course it was proven a fake. It caught my interest, though, and I took some free time I had to go looking just for kicks. At first it was a lark, my mates and I were joking the whole time as we went diving down around the fault line that had caused the tsunami. Then while I was filming my friend a webbed hand slapped against the domed window of our sub. Well, I’m not ashamed to say I nearly soiled myself!” Moriarty laughed, his Irish brogue playing out in Sherlock’s mind, “Then my mind was opened. The deepest parts of our own world have not been explored, yet here we stand decrying them myths. All the mythology, all the rumors; where would it come from if not some basis in fact? Dinosaurs were once laughable, but now we have entire museums of them. I’m not saying sirens are out there singing sailors to their deaths, but surely there are creatures we haven’t seen yet! Surely it makes sense to at least _search_ for them with an open mind!”

It went on for some time, listing possible physical characteristics, reasons for evolving, a picture and chemical breakdown of the algae, and the award he’d won for discovering and publishing his findings on the algae. The algae were the most horrifying part. So far maritime laws were protecting its harvesting, keeping it to scientific research and emergency rescues at sea; probably the military were a part of that, but he found no actual evidence of the sort aside to a reference to a place called ‘Baskerville’. As far as Sherlock was concerned, this was the time for action. His people could either out themselves or hide themselves better, and the first thing that would have to go was the alga. His people didn’t need it anymore, but they had been using it to save people drowning at sea for centuries. And it would mean he would have to choose between John and his home- except it wasn’t a choice because staying would mean his own kind would be hunted down and killed. All it would take was a waiter at a restaurant spilling a glass of water on him. Moriarty finding him and exposing him before some accident showed his real self to the world was only slightly less likely. He was a walking risk.

_To think I waited nearly thirty years to be with him. I should leave now. While he sleeps._

XXX

John woke up with that ache in his lungs he attributed to having breathed underwater the day before. He took several full breaths and indulged a fear of dry drowning before telling himself off and heading to the loo. After relieving himself he wandered into the sitting room and was surprised to find Sherlock missing. With a sigh of frustration he began looking for clues as to where he was. He checked his phone first, then the room upstairs where Sherlock had apparently thrown out everything in the ‘nursery’. There wasn’t even a peg left on the wall: the Grinch couldn’t have done better.

John sighed and headed back downstairs, then noticed his laptop wasn’t where he’d left it. He opened it up and check the history, finding a list of sites about mermaids. Of course, Moriarty’s was the most frequently visited. John was just starting to feel proud of himself for having ‘deduced’ so much when he called Sherlock’s phone and it rang from the sugar bowl in the kitchen. John walked over in surprise and fished it out of the bowl, staring at it.

Sherlock wouldn’t leave without his…

The voicemail clicked on.

“Hello, John. This is my note…”

[CHAPTER 9](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/88237.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 9

_John was just starting to feel proud of himself for having ‘deduced’ so much when he called Sherlock’s phone and it rang from the sugar bowl in the kitchen. John walked over in surprise and fished it out of the bowl, staring at it._

_Sherlock wouldn’t leave without his…_

_The voicemail clicked on._

“Hello, John. This is my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note? An apology. I want you to tell everyone: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created the mermaid sightings off the coast for my own purposes. That I lured in Moriarty. It’s a trick, just a magic trick. Tell them all I’m sorry and… they can find me at the bottom of the Thames. Good-bye John.”

For a moment John chuckled and shook his head, thinking how brilliant Sherlock was. Here he was, making it easy for Moriarty to find him… by faking his death. John would call Lestrade, Sherlock would jump off a bridge into the Thames, they’d search it but never find a body, John would cry on the cameras, Moriarty would show up and proclaim Sherlock a merman, he’d get laughed out of every hotspot in London till he really _did_ jump off a bridge.

So John played the hand he was dealt and called Lestrade, making his voice suitably choked up.

“Greg, it’s John. I can’t find Sherlock and there’s a weird message on his mobile. A really weird message. I think he’s going to do something awful.”

“John… where are you?”

“At the flat,” John sobbed.

“I’m sending someone over for you.”

“You don’t need to come get me, we have to find Sherlock! He said something about the Thames…”

“They should be there by now, are they?”

John paused. _Why would they be here already? That was only a few seconds._

There was a ring at the bell (John was surprised it worked after Sherlock had shot it) followed by a knock. Feeling a sense of real dread whell up inside of him, John bolted downstairs and threw open the door. His phone dropped out of his hand as he was met with a pair of plainsclothes with very grim faces.

“May we come in Dr. Watson?”

“What happened?” John asked, his gut clenching. Could Sherlock’s plan have backfired?

“We have some rather bad news, it would be better if you were sitting down. Perhaps some tea?”

“I can’t,” John argued, “My boyfriends missing. He left a suicide threat on his outgoing voicemail.”

The man on the right flinched and John plunged in, “Have they found a body?”

“No, sir, but the Thames is rather large and with all the rain…”

“Then he might be fine.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” The woman on the left said sadly, “He fell from a rather large height and… gunfire was exchanged.”

“G-gunfire?” John stammered.

“Yes, sir. With a Professor Moriarty who was apparently tricked into thinking he was a merman. We tried to stop him, but he’d chased Mr. Holmes three blocks and up the rails of the bridge. He was pretty relentless.”

_Oh my gods, Sherlock might actually be… He might be… no. He can’t be. He’s too smart for that. He’s too smart for Moriarty. It has to have been a staged thing. He’ll be wearing a bullet proof vest or something. He’ll be okay. He’s just in the water. I’ll go there and meet him._

“Excuse me,” John replied, and shut the door in their faces.

Once upstairs he changed into street clothes and hurried downstairs with his swimming trunks beneath his clothes. He’d rent a boat. He’d rent a boat and he’d go up and down that river with a pair of binoculars until Sherlock flagged him down. Then they’d go back to their cove and have merbabies in the godsbedamned shallows.

XXX

It took Sherlock several months to re-locate his clan, and that was only because he stopped and asked somefish where they were every few tailstrokes. Everyone was changing where he or she spent time and what he or she did. The pods had called a meeting, but the location had changed several times since Moriarty was hot on their trail.

Once they finally managed to gather most of the merpeople in one area, the debates began and Sherlock found many fingers pointed at him. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only human-curious merperson, and eventually the blame game was dropped in favor of practical dialogue. There were discussions of no longer migrating since it tended to take them to the tourist spots, but that would require living near warm currents during the winter to keep warm, and those could quickly become crowded. Then they discussed population control, then emerging to the world as a real species and demanding that they be treated as their own state.

The problem with this last one was the war-like actions of the humans. Mycroft was quick to point out that if they found a way to exploit them- such as abducting a merchild or two- they could force them to harvest pearls and other treasures from the ocean floor until their own world was as polluted and destitute as theirs was. True, they might honor their request for a peaceful coexistence, but intervention was far more likely. They would want to develop trade, something his people had no use for. While it seemed unlikely that they’d want to dissect them- assuming they realized immediately that they weren’t animals- the likelihood that they wouldn’t want to examine them relentlessly was slim. Their way of life would be disrupted at best and outright halted at worse. They’d send divers down by the thousands, and even individuals would jump on the chance to dive as deep as they could and study their homes. The rate of drowned humans would increase exponentially. They would probably be called on to help with rescues, which they had no problem with, but if it happened to the extent Mycroft suspected then there would be little to no time for them to gather food and care for their young.

Finally, a new decision was made. They would send someone in to integrate with the humans and find a suitable middle ground, or at least provide enough data to make a more informed decision. Sherlock, of course, volunteered, but he was shot down as being to impetuous and having ulterior motives. Mycroft would go, and he would utilize Sherlock’s knowledge of the world so far to make his way. Sherlock found himself locked in a cave for hours each day with his thrice-despised, annoying older brother, teaching him _English_ and everything else he’d learned about John’s culture and various human habits. When Mycroft left two months later, Sherlock was finally left to mourn for his losses alone.

[CHAPTER 10](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/88400.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 10

Three years had passed. John had long since resigned himself to bachelorhood. He’d tried to date a couple of years after Sherlock’s ‘disappearance’ (he still refused to believe he was dead) but it had been useless. Any relationship he started paled in comparison to his relationship with Sherlock. The women (and one man) had sensed it fairly quickly, and each had told him to go back to whoever had broken his heart. Sometimes John just sat in his flat and watched the clip from the news over and over again.

Sherlock would run out onto the bridge, his strong legs pumping hard, while Moran and Moriarty chased after him. Moran took up a sniping position with a rather alarmingly large rifle while Sherlock climbed onto the edge of the bridge. There was no sound, the cameraperson was too far away, but he could see Moriarty talking to Sherlock. He paced back and forth, waving his hands (and gun) wildly. He was the picture of madness and Sherlock seemed to be reasoning with him, but knowing Sherlock it was just as likely he was baiting the narcissistic scientist. Then Moran had taken a shot and Sherlock had crumpled in on himself and toppled off the edge. He’d dropped like a stone and John’s stomach still felt as though it dropped with him. He made a rather large splash in the water, which shocked John since he knew how fluidly Sherlock moved in water; he should barely make a ripple. Then Moriarty jumped over as well, his arms flapping like a bird trying to take flight and his coat tails echoing them. He hit the water and Moran started shouting and pointing for assistance. Then Moran realized the police were going to arrest him and he jumped as well.

John new the rest of the news stories by heart as well, though he’d only watched them a few times while carefully searching the water with his nose an inch from the screen. They had dredged the Thames but only came up with trash. Moran and Moriarty were spotted out at sea weeks later but eluded the coast guard. They’d vanished out of England after that. For a while it had all been a big bit of news sensation as people decried that the rest of Sherlock’s ‘adventures’ were nothing but a hoax as well, John defended him angrily, and then interest was lost and John was alone. Very alone.

So John went to his job at the clinic and smiled sadly when people spoke to him because his heart was far out to sea. His attempts to rent scuba gear, locate the algae, and join Sherlock wherever he was were completely thwarted when the algae was simply nowhere to be found. He searched in areas he knew Sherlock had harvested it and found _none_. The rocks were scraped clean, all traces of life gone. He wasn’t a fool: the merpeople were cleaning house.

Next he tried to make contact, pulling off his mask and shouting as loud as he could in merspeak. Eventually someone wandered close enough and John took a gulp of air and asked for Sherlock. The mermaid swam away quickly without saying a word. John waited for an hour and then gave up and surfaced. He came back the next day and the day after that, but each time he found no one. Eventually he got desperate enough to toss bottles with notes in them into the ocean in the hopes that Sherlock would return for him.

_SH,_

_Come back for me. I will give it all up for you. Everything._

_JW._

_SH,_

_I love you. I want kids._

_JW_

_SH,_

_Please._

_JW_

_SH,_

_I’m begging you. Please take me back. I’m sorry._

_JW_

XXX

Sherlock had a collection of floating bottles on the roof of his cave. They were filled with air and a single scrap of paper each, and a net kept them from being carried off by a current. He’d read them one time each, but it was simply too risky to go back to the surface to read them again. Once he’d found the first bottle he’d told everyfish to keep an eye out for more of them. It broke his heart to see them every day, but at the same time it was something he needed. It was a connection to John. A connection to his lifemate, who was hurting because he’d abandoned him. He had meant to spend his entire life with John, but now they were both alone. He kept waiting for the letters to stop coming, to signal that John had moved on. He’d had mates before he’d met Sherlock, surely he would have them again? Yet, at the same time, he was terrified of the day when nothing had shown up for long enough that he had to accept that no more were coming. Or worse yet: the letter telling Sherlock that John was moving on or already had. Because even though Sherlock had left, he wasn’t ready to let John go. He wanted to think of him as waiting for him forever, even though he had no intention of returning. It gave him a reason to get up each day when the ennui set in.

XXX

John walked down the street with his bag tucked close under his coat. He was annoyed with himself for forgetting his umbrella. Then he caught sight of someone who he was _certain_ he knew, holding a wide brolly right in front of his building. John headed over with a grin and the hope of some assistance. He ducked under Speedy’s overhang and spoke up.

“Excuse me, mate, would you do me a solid?” John called; the man looked up and his eyes widened just a bit. Clearly he recognized John, too. “Could you hold that brolly over me while I unlock my door?”

John pointed to his door, which was sadly _not_ covered by Speedy’s overhang, and noticed that the rain had picked up quite a bit.

“I’m sorry, but I’m quite busy,” The man replied, his accent so posh that John caught himself checking the umbrella for a designer label.

“Oh, well… sorry to bother you,” John replied, disappointed, and ducked back into the rain with his keys in his hands.

He dropped them. Of course. Frustrated, John bent double, but found the rain had ceased. He grabbed his keys and straightened to find himself under the rim of the aristocrats umbrella.

“Oh, hullo. Thanks!” John replied cheerfully.

“My pleasure,” The man purred.

Something about his deep voice made John’s body suddenly feel buoyant, as though he were being moved with the currents deep in the sea. His breath caught in his throat and he unconsciously moved closer to the man, and then blushed and pulled away again.

“Ah, thanks. I’ll just… do I know you from somewhere?”

“Perhaps from another lifetime,” The man replied with a tightlipped smile and a very intense look.

John felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and backed away. He fumbled with his keys in his door, gave the man a grin over his shoulder, thanked him again, and bolted into his flat. It wasn’t until he was back in his flat and saw his favorite picture of Sherlock that his memory clicked. Groceries scattered across the flat as John dropped his bag and bolted back down the stairs, falling the last three. He shoved the door open and bolted out into the street without his jacket or hat on. He looked up and down the street, ran out into the middle of the road, nearly got hit by a car, but no amount of spinning around in one spot like a damn fool allowed him to find Sherlock’s brother.

[CHAPTER 11](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/88651.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 11

John walked home from work the next day, his mind frantically searching for ways to find Mycroft, as it had been all day. He was hoping the man would lead him to Sherlock, but he was starting to think this was all deeper than he had originally thought. That was until the third ringing phone he passed caught his attention.

_Are they really…?_

Sure enough, the fourth phone rang and John stepped in to enter the booth, “Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

“Mycroft? Where’s Sherlock. I need to talk to him. At _least_ take him a message…”

“He’s gotten all your messages, actually, or at least most of them. We, however, need to have a few words. Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch it.”

John watched with a feeling of trepidation as the camera swiveled about in obvious motions.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it? … And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

“How are you doing this?” John asked, shocked that Mycroft had achieved such heights of power in so short a time.

“Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but you’re as eager to see me as… well, I wouldn’t call myself eager, but we all know you’ll be coming nonetheless.”

A black sedan pulled up and John slipped into it, but his hopes were temporarily dimmed when he saw neither Sherlock nor Mycroft. The young woman was probably attractive, but John couldn’t focus on her romantic overtures, even when she sensually ran her hand over his thigh.

“What was your name?” John stammered, pushing her hand away.

“Anthea.”

“Right, Annie, look…”

“Anthea.”

“Right, sorry, do you know someone named Sherlock?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Him.”

“Figures,” Anthea sighed.

“Are you working for Mycroft?”

“Are you interrogating me?” Anthea laughed, “Oh, that’s rather cute. Sorry, love, but I’ve been trained by the best. You won’t get a peep out of me,” the woman’s voice became sensual, “No matter how hard you try.”

“So, yes then. Good. Who is he? Some sort of emissary or something?”

Anthea gave him a pitying look and shook her head, refocusing her attention on her Blackberry. John sighed and then slipped out of the car once the door was opened for him. He found himself in a warehouse. Mycroft was leaning pretentiously against his brolly; a chair in front of him and a smug look on his face. John headed over, ready to do battle.

“Have a seat, John.”

“You know, I’ve got a phone. Very clever and all that, but you could have just phoned me… on my phone.”

“When one is avoiding the attentions of James Moriarty one learns to be discreet, hence this place. This could be a lengthy conversation. Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I want to see Sherlock.”

“You don’t seem very afraid,” Mycroft taunted, clearly trying to hide his disappointment.

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

Mycroft laughed out loud, “Yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“Where. Is. Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s smile disappeared, “You will stay away from him. You’ve destroyed his life enough.”

John saw red, but a few deep breaths and a slow count back from ten stopped him from strangling the merman in front of him.

“If you aren’t going to let me see him, then why am I here?”

“Several reasons. First, so I can warn you away from my brother, which you surely suspected. Yes? Good, then you aren’t quite _as_ stupid as I’d feared. Second, so I can warn you to keep mum about my proper species. Third, so…”

“Or you’ll do what?” John asked, eager to move past threats and onto violence if this was where things were going. Honestly, he couldn’t stand snobbish people and their habit of talking for hours on a subject that should take minutes.

Without blinking Mycroft continued, “I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to… ease your way.”

“Why?” John asked, legitimately confused.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

“In exchange for silence and what else?”

“Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d be… _uncomfortable_ with. Just keep me informed of anything that crops up at the hospital that seems… _fishy_.”

“Why? Are there other merpeople about?”

“Perhaps, and if there were I would worry about them. _Constantly_.”

“That’s nice of you,” John replied, but was wondering why they were staying off of Mycroft’s radar if they were out of water.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. There are many facets to this situation which you could not begin to comprehend.”

“No,” John replied without emotion.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure!” He taunted.

“Don’t bother.”

“You’re very quick to change your mind.”

“No, I’m not, I’m just not interested. You mentioned a third reason?”

Mycroft frowned and his eyes narrowed, “Third, so I can inform you that Moriarty may still be after you. I wasn’t going to enlighten you originally, but since you seemed utterly unimpressed by his previous attempts to abduct you- and since we ran into each other yesterday- I thought I’d give you a… what’s the term? Heads up?”

John snorted. He’d noticed the attempts, but he’d also noticed the people _thwarting_ them. He had no reason to live anymore, so he wasn’t going to worry. If it happened, it happened. Perhaps if Moriarty nabbed him Sherlock would surface to save him; but of course the fear of him getting hurt doing so stopped John from handing himself over to Moriarty.

“So that’s it? You just wanted to attempt to intimidate me? You couldn’t have done that by phone? You wanting to keep things quiet I get, but you got my hopes up about Sherlock. That’s low.”

“Apologies,” Mycroft replied with a sardonic smirk, “But you can’t _really_ have thought that I’d let you near him? It wasn’t bad enough you took his virginity, but to keep him from having the children he has wanted for so long, and then to put him in such danger with Moriarty!”

“I had _nothing_ to do with Moriarty!” John shouted angrily, “He was looking for merpeople _long_ before I came along.”

“You all but gave away…”

“I did nothing of the sort, and you know that. Shit happened. I’d have protected Sherlock. Hell, I’m ready to give up my life here and go with him wherever he needs to go to be safe. The ocean. Our cove. _Anywhere_. Just so long as we’re together, I don’t give a damn what else happens. He wants merbabies? Good. I’ll give him a dozen. I’ll carry them if it’s possible. I’ll deliver them if it’s not. I’ll hunt down and kill Moriarty _myself_ if it means I can be with him again! I’m not after his _virginity,_ I’m his godsbedamned **mate!** ”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows, “You’re sincere.”

“Of course I’m sincere! I love him!” John screamed, then paused, panting and trying to calm himself, “Look, just give me some of the algae and tell me where I can find him. I’ll take a dolphin to him, if you’ll just call one for me. I won’t inconvenience you.”

“I can’t do that,” Mycroft replied, with no evidence of either sorrow or joy, “The algae is gone.”

“Gone? All of it?”

“Yes. Eradicated. Originally that wasn’t the plan, but those tasked with destroying the known patches were a bit too… enthusiastic. You cannot return to the sea.”

John nearly staggered with the grief, but held himself upright anyway, “Then I’ll find a way to bring Sherlock back to me. I’m a soldier. I’ll work for you. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Getting rid of all the evidence? Collecting missing members of your species and shepherding- or fishherding- them back to the ocean? You’re obviously in a position of power here.”

“I hold a _minor_ position in the British government,” Mycroft replied humbly, “But you are correct. We’re getting rid of the evidence, and I could always use more… soldiers.”

John’s brow furrowed, wondering what Mycroft had been about to call him, “Yes, well, I’m a doctor, too.”

“I’m aware, Dr. Watson. In fact, I doubt there’s anything I _don’t_ know about you. I accept your proposal, but I make no promise about my brother’s return. He is also working with me to eradicate the Moriarty problem, but he won’t be in contact with you. He may _never_ be in contact with you again.”

Mycroft’s warning was clear, as was the look of continued dislike on his face. John nodded his acceptance.

“If I can help make him safer that will have to be enough,” John replied in resignation.

“Very well, I will have Anthea pick you up sometime in the near future and bring you by my office to brief you on your role. Oh, and Doctor?”

John lifted his chin and waited, practically at attention as a new purpose entered his life.

“Yes?”

“We are mammals, not fish. If pressed we are closer to human or dolphin. Do try to get it right.”

_What, is ‘fish’ like the ‘N word’? I can’t say it unless I’m a merman? Bastard._

“Merherding, then?” John asked with an innocent smile.

Mycroft gave John a disgusted look and pointed his brolly to the car. John barely hid his smirk as he turned sharply on his toes and marched back to the car. Once inside Anthea gave him an impressed look and started to type hyperactively on her Blackberry.

“You did well,” She informed him.

“Thank you.”

“Most people find him intimidating.”

“Most people haven’t been to Afghanistan during a war,” John replied, _Or watched their boyfriends have discussions with killer whales._

“It must have been terrifying,” She tried again.

John pushed her hand away from his shoulder, “I still have the nightmares, but I suppose we all do. Baker Street, please.”

The woman sighed in frustration, but the car began to move so John simply stared out the window and planned his next steps.  
  


[CHAPTER 12](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/88997.html)

 


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 12

John’s first assignment came to him a week later, much to his relief as he had started to think Mycroft had lied to him to get him to leave. He met the man in a building labeled _Diogenes Club_ , which was so earily silent that John found himself walking carefully to avoid the floor creaking. He sat down opposite Mycroft at a desk and noticed the nametag read Mycroft _Holmes_.

_He took Sherlock’s assumed last name? Or was that his REAL last name? Do Atlantians have last names?_

“Your assignment is a simple one, but I warn you it _is_ dangerous.”

“Dangerous is fine,” John shrugged, “Haven’t got much to live for without Sherlock anyway. Might as well go out fighting for him.”

Mycroft didn’t acknowledge his borderline suicidal words; he was too busy looking through a file, which he then handed to John. John had spoken them out loud to make his feelings towards Sherlock known. He also wanted Mycroft to be aware that he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around.

“As you can see, we need some information retrieved from one Augusts Milverton. The man has a reputation for blackmailing anyone he can, sometimes the rich, sometimes the poor. It’s a hobby of his. If they haven’t got money to pay he merrily exposes their secrets to the world. He runs a paper, a gossip rag which everyone with a secret reads out of fear of seeing theirs or their acquaintances published.”

“So you want me to find something to blackmail the blackmailer with?” John asked.

“No, we want you to kill him. He has information that is quite deadly. We considered paying him off, but then you made your offer and I find this to be a more… efficient solution.”

“What information does he have?”

“That is not your concern,” Mycroft replied, and the look in his eyes let John know that he’d better not go looking for it.

“Right. So. How do you want it done?”

“Any way you prefer, just don’t let it be traced back to you. If you need assistance let me know.”

“Hmm,” John replied, studying the layout of the building he was to enter, “Pretty tight security. I could use some psychic paper.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, “If that was a covert way to ask for secret military intelligence, I’m afraid you’re overestimating the intelligence your government has available.”

John barked out a laugh and shook his head, amused at Mycroft’s lack of knowledge on science fiction shows- especially since he _was_ a walking sci fi show. Then he decided on his method, shut the file, and started issuing his _serious_ requests. Once he was well on his way- without the file, of course- he felt a sense of purpose that he’d been lacking these last few years.

XXX

John was working for Mycroft. The realization sent a shock through Sherlock’s system, but there was no denying the evidence in front of him. Mycroft _smelled_ like John, and Sherlock just barely restrained himself from grabbing him and shaking him, demanding to know what was going on between them. If John had moved on with Mycroft then it was Sherlock’s own fault for abandoning his mate. Of course, the likelihood that Mycroft was actually having some sort of sexual relationship with John was unlikely, but Sherlock was irrationally jealous regardless. Just the fact that Mycroft had gotten to _smell_ John felt like an illicit betrayal.

“So how _is_ John?” Sherlock asked.

“Well enough for a man with a broken heart,” Mycroft replied, not questioning how Sherlock had known. Mycroft was just as intelligent- if not more so- as his brother was.

“Is he…”

“He’s single,” Mycroft replied before Sherlock could finish his hesitant question.

Sherlock spent a moment waffling between relieved, worried, and frustrated before simply dismissing it all.

XXX

John was washing the blood off in the communal shower outside his barracks, watching the red and brown swirl around the drain in the floor, when Mycroft stepped into the room in his full suit and tie and stared at him menacingly.

“Something I can help you with?” John asked.

“I have been informed that you were in a restricted area today.”

“Not on purpose,” John replied.

John’s work the last few months had gone from simple gun-for-hire to Secret Agent Man… all while managing to keep him 100% in the dark. John didn’t complain because the first time he tried talking back to Mycroft about how his secrecy was keeping John from working at optimum proficiency the man had produced a blurry picture of Sherlock and handed it to him. John had stared at it like an addict stared at a bag of heroine.

_It had clearly been taken under water with a flash. Parts of Sherlock were in sharp relief, while it faded to darkness at the edges and the background was completely dark. In his arms, held close like a beloved pet, was a small seal. Sherlock was frowning at the camera, a look of irritation on his face, but that familiar glare only made John laugh through the tears that were pouring unchecked down his cheeks. His purple tail was so dark it almost looked black, his pale skin tinged green by his surroundings, but that only brought out his eyes._

Oh gods, his eyes, _John thought._

_“Keep yourself in check and more will be forthcoming,” Mycroft stated, “I may even be able to acquire prurient ones for you if you impress me… and I can find someone I trust near him besides myself.”_

_“Prurient?” John asked, choking a bit on his silent sobs._

_“Look it up in a dictionary,” Mycroft had replied in disgust, walking away with that damned brolly spinning at his side. As far as he knew, John alone was aware of why Mycroft carried an umbrella everywhere he went, and it had little to do with aquaphobia._

“John,” Mycroft’s tense voice brought John out of his revelry, “What specifically did you see?”

“This area secure, I assume?” John asked, turning off the water and drying his hair.

Mycroft snorted so John simply replied.

“I saw nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mycroft replied, his voice taunting and questioning at the same time.

“Yep, I absolutely did not sea a dog the size of a horse rip a man’s head off with its teeth.”

“I’m so glad you were spared that particular horror.”

“Yeah, might have given me nightmares.”

“I’d hate it if you were plagued in such a way.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Good day, John. Your ‘gift’ will be in your trunk. Do take care to keep it locked.”

“I always do.”

John finished drying off, dressed in his lighter fatigues, and headed to his barracks. He had the entire place to himself. Mycroft meant it as a gift for John and had given him a ‘redecoration stipend’, but John hadn’t changed a thing. Row upon row of bunks with naked mattresses greeted him as he stepped into the building. The single water closet and the office next to it were the only other features of the room besides John’s trunk. The ‘trunk’ wasn’t so much a trunk as it was a large metal safe, but it served as his trunk so he called it that. Inside it there _was_ a trunk with a large padlock on it, just in case John had to grab it and run. Inside that trunk were Johns meager possessions, a few small weapons, and a stack of photos. It was to this stack that John went immediately upon checking the perimeter of his room for surveillance equipment, spies, or pranks. The rest of the troops stationed at Baskerville were either wary of him because of the odd treatment he received, or outright jealous of his privileges. John just avoided them. He had no life outside of hunting down threats to Sherlock, even those inside Baskerville’s own gates.

The picture was the ‘prurient’ one that Mycroft had promised and John’s breathe caught in his throat. Sherlock was floating in a current, his tail curled behind him, his eyes closed in pleasure, his mouth open in a small ‘O’ of pleasure (or perhaps calling John’s name?) his hand forming a fist which his mobile cock had just thrust into. John’s mouth watered with desire. How well he remembered the taste of Sherlock’s fluids: his slightly sweet, musky natural lubricant, his briny come, the sharp tang of his sweat, that spicy smell that filled John’s nose in either form.

Giving himself up to lust, John threw himself down on the lower bunk he had claimed as his own slid his hands into his sweats, and fisted his cock as he stared at the picture. He could just imagine Sherlock’s deep voice moaning his name, his curls tickling John’s nose as they moved together like waves in the water, the tight clench of his passage as John buried himself inside of the man, his legs wrapped around those silken scales to hold him in place while Sherlock’s tail curled back to caress his body unconsciously while he arched in pleasure.

John gasped out his mates name as he spilled himself across his freshly washed, newly toned, stomach. He groaned as he stroked himself to milk the climax and watched the last few beads drip out of the slit of his cock as he rolled the foreskin back and forth in pleasurable torture. John set the picture aside as if it were made of bone china, cleaned himself up, and carefully stashed it with the others. Gods only knew how Mycroft got in there, but he was glad he had. That picture would give him pleasant dreams tonight.

And a few nightmares about dying alone as well.

John gave it one last fond look before he shut and locked the lid to his trunk and then spun the dial on his safe. Sherlock’s eyes had been shut in the picture, but there had to have been a flash. He didn’t envy the sod who had taken that picture. Mycroft had probably collected the underwater camera from his remains.

John glanced at the clock on the mantle and then winced when he realized how early it was. There was no point in going to sleep now. Instead, John dug the picture back out and sat it down next to him while he caught up on a medical magazine. He would wank again in an hour, but this time he’d picture himself as Sherlock’s hand in the picture. He had a glass dildo that was nearly identical to Sherlock’s length and width, the glass being the closest he could come to the far harder, and smoother, feel of a merman’s retractable penis. He’d fuck himself with it and imagine it was his lover deep inside of him, taking him fast and hard from behind the way John loved.

XXX

“What do you need, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“More specimens. A turtle, if you can manage it, and more octopi and squids. They seem the most productive for our attempts. In particular the highly advanced mental faculties of the octopi are proving to be quite useful.”

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded, and swam quickly away.

Sherlock was the only one who would perform these tasks for Mycroft, since they were tantamount to murder. Sherlock wasn’t thrilled with the collection of innocent sea creatures that would inevitably lead to their death- possibly painfully- but he knew it was necessary. What Mycroft was attempting would solve many of their problems, and possibly lead to a more peaceful world for the surface dwellers. He just hoped John didn’t catch wind of it, because he would probably disapprove of the whole thing adamantly.

Sherlock collected his specimens- mostly Common Octopi, Lesser Octopi, European Squid, and one very young Leatherback sea turtle- trapped them in nets (sedating those it was possible to render safely unconscious) and swam up River Ness and into the Loch. Loch Ness wasn’t supposed to be able to be just swum into, but his people had long since found ways around such inconveniences. Sherlock swam to the now submerged Dog Island and entered the underwater base they had there.

Mycroft already had an abundance of European eels from the look of his tanks. They were swimming lazily around each other and didn’t bother asking Sherlock to release them. They’d already learned that he would only ignore him. The sea turtle he’d just brought in, however, hadn’t figured the situation out yet and pleaded for release immediately. The part of Sherlock’s heart that he kept buried for the sake of his sanity reacted violently to the young creature’s pleas, but Sherlock merely clicked the cage shut and swam off to secure the octopi and squids. They each had to go into a separate tank as they would savage each other if they were locked into a small space for any lengthy amount of time. Either that or mate. A lot. Which led to death for the female at the very least, though the male didn’t have long to live afterwards, either. Their lifespan was sadly short, which was proving to be an issue for Mycroft’s experiments. They were also difficult to keep contained as even the largest could fit through a hole the size of a quarter and they were shockingly strong.

Next, Sherlock headed into what he called the ‘atrocities cave’. This cave was the reason they were situated in someplace as illustrious as Loch Ness; should any of Mycroft’s atrocities escape the Lochs previous reputation would either declare it a hoax or label it Nessie. Mycroft was determined not to make the same mistake he had in Baskerville, though John had cleaned that up nicely from what Sherlock had heard.

Sherlock fed the inhabitants of the atrocities cave, sliding food between their bars and avoiding meeting their eyes. He hated this area even more than the previous one. While there was an air of desperation in the specimen cave, there was an air of desolation in the atrocities cave. Here dwelled the slightly-successful experiments, so named because they had not only survived the alterations performed on their bodies, but had pain levels low enough to spare them the euthanasia that the mostly-failed experiments were subjected to. Sherlock had thought himself detached from human emotion, had proclaimed himself a sociopath, or at the very least autistic, but nothing had prepared him for actually witnessing living, intelligent creatures dying in agony and fear. Their screams haunted Sherlock’s dreams, their eyes wide with one simple question: _why?_

Sherlock scratched out the results of his feedings on a slab. Only one of the experiments was eating; the rest were curled into dejected balls, waiting for death to free them from the horror of what Mycroft and Sherlock had changed them into. Though John had certainly never heard Sherlock utter the words, the phrase Sherlock spoke as he swam into the next cage was the only one his ‘experiments’ had ever heard him say.

“I’m sorry.”

The next cave was the lab, and was only partially submerged. Sherlock crawled out onto a slab and picked up a hair dryer that was plugged into a car battery. He used it to dry himself off and then stood and walked over to the table where he began studying the cell samples beneath his microscope.

“More cell degeneration,” Sherlock sighed, noting it down. After so many months it still felt odd to write in Atlantian on paper when he had only ever written in English on the fragile substance.

“A pity,” Mycroft’s voice interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts and he frowned down at his results.

“When will you give this horror up, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“When I have what I need; what we _all_ need.”

“And what, precisely, do we all need?” Sherlock asked, looking up at his brother.

Sherlock suspected that Mycroft was mad; if not with power, than simply with a chemical imbalance. That didn’t change the fact that he was holding John’s life in his hands. If Sherlock didn’t perform these constantly fatal experiments on those innocent creatures, Mycroft would kill the man Sherlock loved beyond all reason. So Sherlock cut, chemically altered, and irradiated helpless creatures and human prisoners until his eyes drooped with exhaustion and he was left too tired to lie awake and miss John. Then he would sleep and dream the mad types of almost-nightmares and full out night terrors that those suffering from REM rebound tended to have.

“A solution to our differences,” Mycroft replied.

“You can’t make merpeople, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, angrily knocking a stack of samples to the ground, “It isn’t possible! Even if we managed to re-create thousands of years of evolution, the humans are already on a different path! This isn’t working, it’s just needlessly killing our people and theirs!”

“Those are just prisoners,” Mycroft scoffed, “They’re a useless drain on society anyway.”

“And our people?”

Mycroft laughed out loud, “You’ve never eaten a fish? An octopus? Turtle soup when on dry land?”

Sherlock didn’t reply; he’d become a vegetarian after the first slightly successful experiment and Mycroft well knew- and mocked him for- that. Instead he set about peering at the next sample.

“More cell degeneration. What will you do, Mycroft? Turn all the humans into merpeople?”

“Just focus on the task at hand, Sherlock. Honestly, you’re so easily distracted.”

“Why, when we can just infiltrate _them_ as you already have?” Sherlock demanded, slamming his hand down on the desk, “If you’re so intent on us all becoming one happy race, why not just reveal ourselves? Yes, there will be prejudice at first, but…”

“Prejudice!” Mycroft laughed, giving Sherlock a pitying glance, “Do you think they’re all as accepting as your Dr. Watson? Do you think you won’t end up the one on a slab being sliced open and irradiated? At the very best they’ll try to use us to farm the ocean or wage war on us!”

“Then let’s just go back to the way things were!” Sherlock pleaded, hating the tremble in his voice, “Let’s just slip back into the ocean and…”

“Hide?” Mycroft asked, his eyes flashing with anger, “I thought you had a _spine_ , Sherlock. You’re as boneless as those octopi.”

“I’m trying to be practical,” Sherlock insisted, “What good will it do us to change them all? To make them like us? They won’t see us as equals; they’ll see us as monsters! Looking alike doesn’t make someone your equivalent, _being_ alike does. Hunting down human serial killers taught me that much. If we change them all in their beds we will have become the enemy, Mycroft. We _will_ be the threat that you fear they’ll treat us as, and there _will_ be war!”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, “How slow you must think me. This isn’t a Saturday morning cartoon, Sherlock. I’m not bent on world domination, though even you must admit that I could pull it off easily.”

_Too easily_ , Sherlock thought, thinking of how quickly Mycroft Holmes had _become_ the British government.

“What, then? What am I doing here?”

“Saving us all,” Mycroft replied cryptically, and turned away from Sherlock to slip back into the water from whence he came.

Sherlock watched the bright colored tail vanish into the atrocities cave and didn’t have to wonder at the wails that started up soon after. If the experiments loathed Sherlock, they feared Mycroft. Then the screeching stopped and Sherlock turned at the sound of water stirring once more. Mycroft surfaced with a smile.

“I nearly forgot. I left you a present in your cave. It’s in amongst the rest of your pictures. I think you’ll like this one… I know I did,” Mycroft gave Sherlock a smirk and vanished beneath the water before Sherlock could grab something big enough to do damage if thrown.

Occasionally Mycroft provided Sherlock with a picture so he would know how John was doing. The man was apparently situated in a barracks style prison. He was in decent shape, but none of the pictures showed him happy or even enjoying reading a good book. He had, however, gotten quite fit again. That implied to Sherlock that he had little else to do besides exercise. He had twice now tried to get Mycroft to provide him with books, television, anything to keep the man from going insane, but the politician had merely laughed at him. Instead Sherlock watched as each picture showed John becoming more and more distant, his eyes colder and dimmer, his mind slipping into that quiet place where soldiers went to die.

Once Sherlock finished up his work he swam down to his cave outside the Loch- Sherlock didn’t like to stay in fresh water for long- and scooped up the picture lying in amongst the rest of his things. Mycroft had sealed all the photos between two plastic strips so the water wouldn’t damage them. This picture was the bawdy one that Mycroft had been hinting he would provide Sherlock with if he ‘behaved himself’.

Sherlock couldn’t help the growl of approval that left his throat at the sight of John’s toned body, completely nude and on full display for Sherlock. He had what looked like a glass dildo in his hand, from what little of it Sherlock could see since the shot showed John with the toy shoved deep inside his body. It was a shame he couldn’t see John’s face in this one, but the sight of his arsehole stretched around the toy, of his muscles clenching in his thighs, of his back bowed in pleasure, all added up to enough evidence for Sherlock to deduce the exact look on his face at that moment. John’s pillow was below his hips, and judging by the clench of his gluts he was thrusting into it to pleasure himself from both ends.

_What_ is _he looking at?_ Sherlock wondered, momentarily distracted from his own growing arousal by the sight of something on John’s bed above him. It looked like… a photograph?

Sherlock’s stomach muscles tightened so suddenly that his everted penis slid quickly back inside of him. He swam full force back to the lab, dragged himself to the desk without waiting for his legs to appear, propped himself up on a stool, and shoved the picture under the microscope. It took a moment to adjust for the plastic casing, but then he was looking at a tiny picture of himself… _wanking._

“I’ll kill him,” Sherlock growled, “I’ll bloody _kill him!”_

XXX

Mycroft was still chuckling over his row with Sherlock an hour earlier. The man had been absolutely _livid_ to find out that John had pictures of him masturbating; of course it was the invasion of his privacy that upset him. He wanted to know who had taken the pictures and how he hadn’t seen a flash. Mycroft had refused to tell him which just infuriated Sherlock more simply because he couldn’t stand not to _know_ something. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the picture of John fucking himself with a toy was a similar invasion of privacy.

Mycroft cleared the amusement off of his face as a second black sedan pulled up and a man in a grey Westwood suit stepped out.

“Evening Mr. Holmes,” The Irish lilt greeted him.

“Good evening, Professor, I trust you are well.”

“I’ll be well once you show me a reason for dragging me out of bed at this un _godly_ hour,” Moriarty growled, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“A gift for you,” Mycroft replied with a smirk.

Moriarty reached out and took the tan envelope in hand. He gave it a suspicious look before opening it, sliding out the contents, and gaping at them. Mycroft watched as his pupils dilated and his pulse _visibly_ increased.

“I thought that would amuse you,” Mycroft smirked, “Now, about my shipment?”

“Right,” Moriarty drawled, and snapped his fingers.

Moran stepped out of the sedan, walked around to the trunk, and pulled out a rather large metal suitcase. He walked it over to Mycroft who inspected the contents with a smug smile.

“I trust that will do?” Moriarty wondered absently.

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied with a polite nod, “If there is nothing else, gentlemen?”

Moriarty smiled and nodded farewell, “Ta!”

“Good night,” Mycroft acknowledged.

Mycroft slipped into the car, holding the suitcase as if it were his firstborn child.

“Anthea, take us back to Baskerville. This will need _immediate_ looking into. I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel all my meetings for the next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied with a nod, “But sir… What was in the envelope?”

“Haven’t you been working for me long enough not to ask questions?” Mycroft asked coldly.

“Yes, but it’s just…”

“Then I suggest you retract your question.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir,” Anthea replied.

Mycroft smirked out the window; all his plans were coming into fruition. Soon he wouldn’t have to spend his days constantly looking over his shoulder, checking the weather every few minutes, and hiding his true nature from everyone around him. That was the moment when lights flashed behind them and Mycroft scowled as their car was pulled over by a _cop_.

Correction: A Detective Inspector, the gait of the man walking towards them was clearly that of a DI. What was a DI doing pulling over cars like a common PC?

XXX

Moriarty leered down at the photo in his hands.

“What’s wrong with its dick?” Moran demanded.

“They retract like a lizards,” Moriarty explained, “This one is everted.”

“There’s no… skin.”

“No foreskin, you mean, yes. It’s more like a long stick, isn’t it?”

“Kinda has a head.”

“A small one, yes, and before you ask the testicles are _inside_ its body.”

“So… it’s fucking its hand without even moving its hips?” Moran asked for clarification.

“Yes!” Moriarty snapped irritably.

“That’s weird.”

James Moriarty sighed up at the ceiling of his car, silently begging the gods for patience with his idiotic lover, “That’s the _point!”_

“Right. Sorry, boss.”

“Do you think it smells like fish?”

“If you speak again I will cut out your tongue and use it to moisten the envelope I mail your eyes to your mother with.”

Moran fell instantly silent and Moriarty enjoyed the ride home in peace… well, relative peace. It was difficult to be _truly_ peaceful when one was achingly hard.

[CHAPTER 13](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/89289.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 13

John broke the woman’s neck and dropped her corpse into the ocean, leaning forward to wave casually at it just as it hit the surface. A brick tied to her arms weighed her down enough to make her sink below the surface. Sometimes he liked to imagine that Sherlock was down there watching him fight for him, but he doubted the merman was anywhere nearby. From what he’d gleaned from Mycroft, Sherlock was somewhere in Scotland working on a fairly large project. John sighed and stepped away from the edge of his boat and the torturous waves that sang of comforting arms and swaying currents. He’d never feel those sensations again and it was useless to stand about missing them. Instead, John turned to the task at hand and dragged the woman’s husband to the edge of the boat. He’d kept him blindfolded; there was no need to torture him by having him watch his wife’s execution.

“I’ll make it as painless as possible,” John assured him, sitting him on the edge of the boat as he’d done the wife, “Goodbye.”

_Snap._

Another drop. Another splash. Another wave. Another sigh of misery.

John headed to the front of the boat and turned the engine back on, but stopped in alarm as something slid off the front end of the boat and into the water. It had looked like a tentacle. A large tentacle. Like something from a sci-fi movie. His mind frantically searched for an explanation, but as far as he was aware there was nothing that large with that type of limb structure in the North Sea. Perhaps a hurricane had blown something in?

“Hello?” John called in his best impression of Atlantian as he walked to the edge and silently cursed himself, “Hello? Hurt?”

To John’s absolute shock a face appeared just below the surface of the water and stared up at him without blinking. For a moment John’s mind superimposed the faces of his most recent victim on that one and his blood turned to ice in his veins as a superstition worthy of Edgar Allen Poe flooded his mind in shooting spurts of dopamine. Then his training caught up with him, he gasped in a breath, brought his mind to the forefront to deal with this new revelation, and watched the man/creature blink before vanishing in a roiling swirl of water.

_I need a vacation. Can I take a vacation? Would Mycroft allow that?_

John’s mobile rang and he bolted for it, answering it with a shaky voice.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft demanded instantly.

John got that creepy ‘I’m being watched’ feeling instantly, but brushed it aside to answer him, “Just saw something odd in the water.”

Mycroft was silent a moment, and then gave him instructions that rendered him speechless.

“Go straight to the mouth of River Ness, if possible. You’ll be met by one of my agents who will take you in _our_ way. No, there is no algae, just some rather simple scuba gear. I trust you are familiar with it? Of course you are.”

The call ended and John stared at the phone with his stomach twisting in knots. River Ness was in Scotland. Sherlock was in Scotland. River Ness led to Loch Ness, which was most likely accessible under water. John was being snuck into wherever Sherlock was holed up.

Nearly sick with anticipation, John turned his boat towards the nearest harbor to get gas so he could make the journey northward without interruption.

XXX

It was a nightmare. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, gasping in pain, as blood flowed out of several gashed wounds across his body and arms. He’d have a rather ugly scar low on his hip because of this… that was assuming he survived. The arrival of his brother had been most satisfying, however. Watching the way Mycroft went pale with concern had been rather gratifying, but luckily the ponce didn’t faint on him. Instead he fetched help and Sherlock found his wounds being stitched up where possible and wrapped in healing plants and kelp where not.

“How many escaped?” Mycroft demanded.

“Four,” Sherlock replied, “Though one was rather badly wounded. I doubt she’ll survive long.”

“How many were female?” Mycroft asked, his tone one of intense fear.

Sherlock knew why. They had only just perfected their design, and the females were breeding machines. Only one successful clutch had occurred, with the female finally ignoring her instinct to starve herself to death while fussing over her eggs, and it had been over a hundred eggs. Mycroft, upon seeing the swarm of hatchlings, had ordered them all euthanized except for four healthy ones of his choosing: all male. Those were still in their plastic cages, the mother apparently unconcerned with her playfully swimming offspring.

“Two females escaped,” Sherlock replied, and this time Mycroft swayed on his feet, but Sherlock’s enjoyment was bellied with his own fears, “I hope you have a plan.”

“We’ll have to move up our timetables,” Mycroft growled angrily, then pulled out his mobile and stepped away to make a call.

Sherlock focused on his injuries, studying the way the medic looked him over. He deduced that the man was confident Sherlock would heal well, so he ignored the man and focused on his worry for John and whatever his ‘creations’ would do out in the world. One of his first concerns had been that they would harass or even kill Nessie. Nessie was literally thousands of years old, and one of the few creatures in the world that Sherlock deeply respected. He’d spoken to her whenever she was awake, but she spent most of her time sleeping deeply on the bottom of the Loch, her body lazy with her low breathing rate in the peat-heavy waters of the Loch. She was well and truly trapped there, but made no complaint about her isolation from the rest of the Lochs and her fellow species. Her kind was a dying breed, in fact ‘breed’ couldn’t be used in reference to them anymore as most of them weren’t even sure when the last of their kind had mated. Nessie woke on occasion, forced herself into action to catch some food, socialized with whoever was nearby and hadn’t been indiscriminately devoured, and then slept again. She was vulnerable when she slept, and had sustained injuries before from creatures that had decided she was dead and started feasting on her slumbering form. In response, a contingent of dedicated sea creatures that worshiped her as their goddess stayed nearby her, feeding on the barnacles that grew on her body and keeping predators and scavengers away. Sometimes they were sacrificed for her appetite when she awoke, but sometimes she respected their worship and went for something less devoted.

While Sherlock hadn’t joined the Church of Nessie, he certainly had gazed upon her in absolute awe, waiting for her gorging to finish before approaching her to ask various questions. It had been her advice that had led them to the breakthrough, as Nessie was old enough to remember the sinking of Atlantis. She had seen it first hand, something that Mycroft must have been aware of. Her careful recollection of alterations in species over time led them to their solution and the creation of the first honest-to-goodness ‘sea monster’. Still, Sherlock had no insite as to why Mycroft would want to create another intelligent searace.

“Bond air is go,” Mycroft stated, and Sherlock looked up to find him still on his mobile, though how he got reception this far below sea level was likely a government secret.

Mycroft hung up his mobile and paused, standing over Sherlock with a hesitant look, “I’m bringing him in.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, “John.”

It wasn’t a question and Mycroft didn’t answer it, he merely walked away towards the exit pool, “You will stay away from him.”

Sherlock watched Mycroft sink below the waves and shivered in anticipation. John would be nearby. John would be _here_.

_John will be near those monsters I helped my mad scientist brother create. Oh, gods, what have I done!_

Sherlock heard his mobile ping from his desk and stared at it in shock. It hadn’t worked in the months since he’d sat it on the desk and forgotten about it. It was plugged in and charged on occasion, but he just used it to keep time. Curious, he stood on his freshly altered legs, ignoring the protesting medic, and staggered over to the desk.

A message had come in. From someone listed merely as ‘M’.

“Jumbo jet. Dear me Mr. Holmes, dear me!”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face and launched himself at the nearest computer, typing away fast as he pulled up the rather slow internet connection and looked up.

“747 from Heathrow airport. 0630. Mycroft, you can’t be serious!” Sherlock breathed as it all fell into place.

“Sherlock, your leg!” The medic argued, “Let me patch you up before you bleed to death!”

“I haven’t got time for that!” Sherlock argued, but a few steps later he made time by passing out on the floor.

 

XXX

DEATH COMING UP. Skip to the next chapter if you don’t want to read about it, but I’m afraid you’ll find out who it was sooner or later either way. Also, see the tags for more warnings. BDSM theme below including gasping, which may be a bit graphic.

 

Mycroft slipped into the flat with an air of finality. He didn’t want to be here, he really didn’t, but there was little point to keeping his dirty little secret when his _big_ secret was about to be blown wide open after only four years of hard work.

“Gregory!” Mycroft called out.

“Bedroom, love!” Gregory called back, and Mycroft hurried in with a hopeful smile in place.

Sure enough, Gregory was stretched out naked on the bed. Most men would be shocked to find that such a very silver-haired man was in as fit condition as Gregory Lestrade was. Most men would also be shocked to find he was both gay and a power bottom on top of that, but the fact was that Gregory Lestrade was a rather intense sexual deviant… as evidenced by the restraints he was pulling out of the bedside table.

“Just your luck, it’s my day off. Come here and tie me up until my hands go numb.”

“Last time I did that you cursed me for it for two days,” Mycroft reminded with a smug smile.

“Last time you tied me up and left for a fucking _meeting_ , you workaholic arse.”

“Last time I came back to find you had escaped and had to _punish_ you.”

“Last time you had to catch me first,” Gregory growled, his eyes dark with desire.

Mycroft pounced and they were soon struggling for dominance, though both knew how this would play out in the end. It always ended with Lestrade writhing beneath- or on top- of Mycroft, impaled on his cock and growling out his approval.

Mycroft’s multifaceted mind wandered back to what had led to this bizarre relationship as he struggled to subdue his passionately violent lover.

_DI Lestrade walked up to the front window and spoke with the driver, obtaining a license and asking some rathery prying questions. Finally, Mycroft had rolled down his window and demanded the man’s attention._

_“What is the meaning of this? If my driver was speeding then arrest him and welcome. I’ve places to be. Anthea! Get up front and drive!”_

_“Actually, sir, it’s you I wanted to speak with. Are you Mycroft Holmes?”_

_“And if I am?”_

_“Are you related to a Sherlock Holmes?”_

“ _You are familiar with my obnoxious brother, are you?”_

_“He’s a friend. A missing friend. One who I really don’t think killed himself a few years back. You know anything?”_

_“Yes, he’s alive and well. May we go now?”_

_“Not until I speak with him. His boyfriends been a wreck and just went missing as well. Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, is near beside herself. She’s a dear woman. She doesn’t deserve this heartache.”_

_“Feel free to tell her they are_ both _alive and well. May we go now?” Mycroft snarled, texting the Chief of Police while he argued with the man._

_“Together?”_

_“Yes, together! If my man has done nothing wrong I see no reason for you to detain him!”_

_“I meant, are they together? John and Sherlock?”_

_Mycroft paused in the midst of his second text to the Superintendent and stared at the man before him. There was genuine concern in his eyes._

_“You_ care _for my ignorant brother and his idiotic lover?” Mycroft asked in surprise._

_“They’re good people… well, John is. Sherlock’s something else, but he’s a great man... whatever he is.”_

_Something about the way the man said ‘whatever he is’ caught Mycroft’s attention and his throat clenched._

_“You_ know _,” Mycroft hissed in alarm._

_Lestrade winced but made no reply._

_“Who have you told? Who else knows?!” Mycroft demanded, stepping out of the vehicle into the crisp night air. The traffic was absent. Even the CCTV cameras were missing from this street. He could silence this man and his pretty partner without even bothering to clean up the mess afterwards._

_“No one,” Lestrade replied, nodding to his partner, “Not even her.”_

_“What? What don’t I know about the Freak?” the Nubian woman demanded._

_“Quiet, Sally,” Lestrade growled, “Listen, I don’t want to cause him or John- or you- any trouble. I just want to know my friends are safe, and to help them if they aren’t.”_

_Mycroft considered the man for a moment and then, “Get in.”_

_“Take the car back, Sally,” the DI ordered._

_“Sir!”_

_“Now, Sally!” Lestrade barked, and walked around the sedan to slip into the other seat._

_They drove in silence with Anthea fiddling with her Blackberry between them. When they reached the club Mycroft dismissed Anthea and his driver for the night and escorted Lestrade into the darkened building. A thrill of excitement shot up his spine. He normally had someone else do the killing for him, but there was something about this man that made him want to wrap his hands around his throat personally. Mycroft didn’t recognize that spark as lust until he had pinned the man down to the floor of his office and started choking the life out of him. The struggling DI, who was surprisingly strong, had bucked and twisted beneath him. It wasn’t until Mycroft felt his hard cock pressed against his thigh that Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in the overwhelming pleasure of rutting against the man. He loosened his grip on the bruised throat so the man would live long enough for them both to reach culmination._

_It was the most intense orgasm Mycroft Holmes, a virgin as all his people were until they found their soulmates, had ever experienced. He had pinned the man’s wrists above his head, leaned forward, and ground their clothed erections together. Beneath him Lestrade gasped, coughed, wheezed, and then started moaning desperately. They had frotted together like that for a torturous few minutes before Mycroft had eagerly wrapped his hands around the man’s throat again. He alternated between choking him and clawing at the sides of his neck. The man would be black and blue if he survived until morning._

_When Lestrade came it was just after Mycroft released his throat for the fourth time, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he gasped breath in and convulsed beneath him in mindless pleasure. The look on his purpled face drove Mycroft wild and he came with a guttural shout, biting the man’s neck possessively. He’d been lost from that moment on._

A snarl and a sharp bite to his now bare chest brought Mycroft out of his revelry and he struggled until he was able to pin Gregory face down on their mattress.

“You’ve been such a naughty boy,” Mycroft growled, and slapped him sharply across that narrow behind of his.

Gregory jumped, swore, shouted, and bucked back in eager longing for more. Mycroft took up a merciless motion, slapping the man repeatedly. Their headboard was a mirror, and there was a mirror suspended above their bed, so he could see Gregory from every angle and in every way as he took him. Now he went back and forth between slapping his arse red and watching the mixture of pain and pleasure cross the man’s face. Mycroft was a man who craved power, but none of it was ever enough until _this._ Feeling Gregory Lestrade struggle and then submit to him was an absolutely addictive sensation. Watching the man as he became overwhelmed by pain and pleasure was something that left him aching when they were apart. In this small flat which had originally been Gregory’s alone, Mycroft was finding himself a form of ‘home’ that had nothing to do with the flow of the tides or the sway of the kelp fields.

“ _Beg_ me!” Mycroft growled.

“Please! Please, Mycroft, fuck me! Take me hard!”

Mycroft snarled and grabbed the well-lubricated toy from the bedside. The slut had been waiting for him! He plunged it into Gregory and watched his eyes pop, his jaw drop, and his face flush a deeper hue of red. He was merciful then, giving him time to adjust to the conical plug that had just opened him up faster than was strictly fun. Once the man was calm and he could see the muscles around the toy relaxing, Mycroft slid it free and began to pump it in an out. Smirking at his success when Gregory moaned and shivered with pleasure, Mycroft slipped the toy free and tossed it back onto the tray it had been sitting on. He took a moment to caress around Gregory’s grasping entrance, moaning in pleasure as it tried to swallow up his finger the moment it came near. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Gregory’s swollen bollocks. When they were apart, no matter how long that was, Gregory was not allowed to touch himself. He wouldn’t last long, but Mycroft had no intention of stopping until his own body was sated.

Mycroft plunged inside without warning and Gregory’s head snapped back. He gasped, then moaned his lover’s name and began to thrust back on his cock eagerly. Mycroft panted in arousal, but held himself in check.

“Don’t come. Not yet.”

“Mycroft!” Gregory shouted, his tone offended and frustrated.

“Not yet!” Mycroft repeated, “ _Hold it off!_ ”

“S’not fair!” Gregory moaned, but grasped his prick firmly to hold himself at bay regardless.

Mycroft watched the dual sight of his cock plunging in and out of the gorgeous man below him and Gregory’s face twisted in suffering as he held off an orgasm that had been building for _days_ while Mycroft had been away. The aristocrat could feel his own climax brewing, a coil tightening in his stomach as his bollocks drew up and demanded he _breed_ this man in a way that simply wasn’t possible… yet.

“Come for me, Gregory,” Mycroft growled.

The man loosened his grasp on his member and began to pump it eagerly, his mouth going slack as the pleasure built. Mycroft moaned at the sight of his eyelids fluttering open to look up at him with such devotion and desire in his eyes as their gaze met through the looking glass. Then his pupils widened to the point his eyes were black, his breathe caught in his throat, and with a desperate cry he came hard across the bedspread. Mycroft hissed at the tight clench, but thrust through it, jarring Gregory’s body as he plundered him. When he finally came it was with a deep moan of satisfaction as he emptied himself into his oh-so willing lover.

Mycroft held their position a moment, allowing himself to soften naturally and slide free. He loved this man. There was no doubt about it. From the cocky look now being sent his way through their mirror to the way he snored softly in his sleep; Gregory Lestrade was a source of unparalleled happiness in Mycroft’s otherwise dull and meaningless life. True, he had risen to power within his own pod and again in the human government, but there was something to be said for having someone lay trusting and tender beside you. Here was something that could give Mycroft a very different purpose in his life.

Which was why the second Gregory flopped onto his back with a happy sigh and relaxed into the soft mattress Mycroft had bought for them, Mycroft quickly straddled his hips, snatched up one of their 90£ pillows, and pressed it forcefully down on his face. Gregory laughed at first, struggled playfully, his hands roaming Mycroft’s body as he assumed the man was up for round two. Then the air loss started to add up and Mycroft leaned harder on the pillow as the man tapped his hip for release. Gregory tapped his hip again. Then slapped it. Then began to struggle in earnest, thrashing beneath him and clawing at his arms and tightly clenched fists. He cried out with the last of his air, it might have been Mycroft’s name or not, and then began to convulse as his body tried to take in air that was completely out of reach for him. The noises he made were horrible and Mycroft clenched his eyes shut to block out the sight since he couldn’t hold his ears.

Finally, Gregory was still. Mycroft waited for a count of 120, watching for any twitching or signs of life, then slowly leaned back and removed the pillow. Gregory’s face was frozen in a look of surprise and hurt, his mouth slack and his once dancing eyes red from the blood vessels that had burst while he’d struggled for air. Mycroft reached out and gently closed his glazed eyes and then tried to shut his mouth, but gave up the attempt as futile. He lay down beside his now dead lover, curled up in a ball, and wept. He might have stayed that way for hours had a soft cry from the living room not dragged him out of his revelry.

Mycroft stood and walked into the sitting area where the predominant feature was a gigantic glass aquarium. Mycroft had commissioned it to be made directly in their home. Inside, calling softly for her parents, swam a tiny merbaby. Their kind were helpless to defend themselves when born, but were capable of swimming immediately, but she was as helpless as a newborn outside of the tank. Mycroft cherished his tiny child, especially now that she was all he had left of his proud mate.

“Hello, Angel,” Mycroft cooed, pulling some kelp out of the small fridge beside her tank and chewing it for her.

Angel did a flip and pressed her face to the glass. Mycroft pressed back and made a silly face to make her laugh, but she hadn’t learned how quite yet. She did give him a smile, the first that he was aware of, and he fought the urge to laugh with joy despite his mouthful of mush. Finally, he stepped up on the stool that allowed him to lean over the tank. Angel surfaced and their mouths pressed together as in a kiss, but it was food she was after. She gulped down the mushy kelp and dropped back into her briny haven. Mycroft watched as she moved slowly around the water, attempting to grasp the shiny pebbles that decorated the bottom of her ‘crib’. Her fine motor skills were still developing, but Mycroft was sure he already saw a spark of brilliance in her.

“You will be my legacy, Angel,” Mycroft cooed to the blue-tailed and eyed, red haired infant, “You will make your father and I _proud_ as you take my place. I’ve sacrificed so much for you, but it will all be worth it to give you a _peaceful_ world to grow up in. I love you, dearest.”

Then Mycroft turned away to collect the rug from in front of the television and drag it into the bedroom. He didn’t want Angel to see her father like that.

[CHAPTER 14](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/89498.html)


	14. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 14

Four years since he’d last held John. Four years and it all felt like such a _waste_ , because here his lover was working for his batshit crazy brother. John clearly had no idea what Mycroft was up to, but there was no way to communicate with him. Besides, Sherlock had been removed from the atrocities program and given a new task. He was to watch his niece, the parentage of whom had shocked him to the core. He’d known his brother had been pregnant- he’d been present for most of it but given birth someplace secret- but had been given not a single clue as to who the sire was until this moment. In his arms was clearly the daughter of Gregory Lestrade, but when Sherlock asked when the father would be joining them the flippant reply was all the information Sherlock needed.

_How? Why? I could never harm John, yet my brother murdered his mate. I need to get this child away from him, but_ how _?! I’m more a prisoner now than I ever was._

A year earlier, ever since Sherlock had figured out that John wasn’t a prisoner as he’d been originally told, Mycroft had been slowly tightening the leash he had on him. Sherlock could no longer swim freely through the ocean but had to go with guards at his sides, and now the ocean wasn’t even _safe_. Sherlock’s injuries aside, he couldn’t very well swim out into the water where Mycroft “[Moreau](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Island_of_Doctor_Moreau)” Holmes’ monsters were swimming free.

_And breeding._

Sherlock shuddered in loathing. They had never spoken a word after their alterations had been complete, but Sherlock knew they hated him. He had seen it in their eyes and no amount of apologies had solved that problem. He couldn’t very well blame them. Sherlock wasn’t attached to his transport, but it was still _his_ and he’d be horrified if someone had altered it. Now they were out there somewhere and Mycroft was in the final stages of a brilliantly planned, if utterly horrific, plan to change both their worlds.

His own people had no idea what was happening, not even the guards assigned to Sherlock and Angel, and Sherlock wasn’t about to clue them in. Telling them at this late stage of the game would be pointless, and would undermine everything Mycroft had been working towards. He might not agree with his methods, but Mycroft was right: this was going to change the world.

XXX

John stood on the shore of Loch Ness, a mixture of disappointment and hope swirling in his belly and making his coffee sit unsteadily. He was glad he wasn’t on a boat today. Instead he looked through his binoculars until he saw what he’d been looking for and quickly flipped on the camera. A single minute of clip and he was ready to continue to the next part, but the issue at hand was that no one was going to believe it if it came from him. He had to find a patsy. The best solution was to bribe someone with the obscene amount of money Mycroft had thrown at him, so he had hired a male prostitute; his profession required he have some small acting skills and he was thrilled to have the money for so little work.

John handed the camera off to him and then passed him his mobile. The young man was covered in makeup and a wig, so he wouldn’t be recognizable to anyone. He looked far older than his twenty years. John listened as he bragged to the local news about his film and it wasn’t long before he hung up with a smug look on his face.

“They’re on their way. They have a correspondent just for Nessie, you know?”

“I’ve heard.”

“You’ll pay me once I’m done?”

John nodded and pointed to the nearby hotel, “I’ll be in there- room 2- and you don’t have to put out for me. This is what I’m paying you for, not that.”

The man nodded and John walked away, but was quickly called back.

“What name do I give them?” The slag asked.

John grinned, “How about… Holmes? You pick the first name.”

John watched the man act on the [evening news](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtPlz14qFOA), amused by Gordon Holmes’ rather decent acting. He added his own twist to the whole thing and John chuckled at his comments. He’d bought the man dinner as well, and now he was glad of his investment. John looked up and smiled when Mycroft stepped into his room, letting himself in with a key that he shouldn’t have had.

“Mycroft,” John grinned smugly, but the man looked apoplectic with rage.

“Holmes?! _Holmes?!_ ”

“Oh, go on,” John laughed, “Who cares?”

“The _media_!”

“There are lots of Holmes’. It’s not a big deal. No one knows the truth but you and I.”

“You mean ‘no one knows the truth except me’,” Mycroft scoffed.

John smiled, his lips tightly pressed together, “Sherlock always _called_ me stupid, but he knew that I wasn’t really. See, that’s the flaw in you. You always assume you’re the smartest person in the room, and 99.99% of the time, you’re right.”

“You’re under the impression I’m wrong in this instance,” Mycroft sneered.

“No, you’re definitely smarter than me, but taking that for granted? That was a mistake. I learned a _lot_ from Sherlock. I’m no consulting detective, but I’m not a moron, either.”

“Oh?” Mycroft scoffed, “And what do you _think_ you know?”

“That you’ve created something that’s gotten out of control. That you were planning on- and probably still are planning on- using that something to give humans and merpeople a common enemy. That your little Ursula monsters are out there _early_ and now you’re scrambling.”

“Ironic that you mention the sea witch from that ridiculous film.”

“What, _The Little Mermaid_? I’m surprised you know about that. Sherlock never bothered with that sort of thing.”

“He wouldn’t, but as it happens fictional tales _fascinate_ me,” Mycroft sat down in a chair and crossed his legs, “You can put that gun down, Doctor Watson. I’ve no intention of killing you. In fact, I’d like to tell you a story.”

“A story?” John asked, pulling his Sig out of his pocket and pointing it at Mycroft without an ounce of stealth this time.

“Oh, yes. About a little mermaid, but this one isn’t the Disney version.

“The Little Mermaid dwells in an underwater kingdom with her father (the sea king or mer-king), her grandmother, and her five sisters. Her five sisters are each born one year apart. When a mermaid turns 15, she is permitted to swim to the surface to watch the world above, and when the sisters become old enough, each of them visits the upper world every year. As each of them returns, the Little Mermaid listens longingly to their various descriptions of the surface and of human beings.

When the Little Mermaid's turn comes, she rises up to the surface, sees a ship with a handsome prince, and falls in love with him from a distance. A great storm hits, and the Little Mermaid saves the prince from nearly drowning. She delivers him unconscious to the shore near a temple. Here she waits until a young girl from the temple finds him. The prince never sees the Little Mermaid.

The Little Mermaid asks her grandmother if humans can live forever if they could breathe under water. The grandmother explains that humans have a much shorter lifespan than merfolks' 300 years, but that when mermaids die they turn to sea foam and cease to exist, while humans have an eternal soul that lives on in Heaven. The Little Mermaid, longing for the prince and an eternal soul, eventually visits the Sea Witch, who sells her a potion that gives her legs in exchange for her tongue (as the Little Mermaid has the most enchanting voice in the world). The Sea Witch warns, however, that once she becomes a human, she will never be able to return to the sea. Drinking the potion will make her feel as if a sword is being passed through her, yet when she recovers she will have two beautiful legs, and will be able to dance like no human has ever danced before. However, it will constantly feel like she is walking on sharp swords hard enough to make her feet bleed most terribly. In addition, she will only obtain a soul if she finds true love's kiss and if the prince loves her and marries her, for then a part of his soul will flow into her. Otherwise, at dawn on the first day after he marries another woman, the Little Mermaid will die brokenhearted and disintegrate into sea foam.

The Little Mermaid drinks the potion and meets the prince, who is mesmerised by her beauty and grace even though she is mute. Most of all he likes to see her dance, and she dances for him despite her suffering excruciating pain. When the prince's father orders his son to marry the neighboring king's daughter, the prince tells the Little Mermaid he will not because he does not love the princess. He goes on to say he can only love the young woman from the temple, who he believes rescued him. It turns out that the princess is the temple girl, who had been sent to the temple to be educated. The prince loves her, and the wedding is announced.

The prince and princess marry, and the Little Mermaid's heart breaks. She thinks of all that she has given up and of all the pain she has suffered. She despairs, thinking of the death that awaits her, but before dawn, her sisters bring her a knife that the Sea Witch has given them in exchange for their long hair. If the Little Mermaid slays the prince with the knife and lets his blood drip on her feet, she will become a mermaid again, all her suffering will end, and she will live out her full life.

However the Little Mermaid cannot bring herself to kill the sleeping prince lying with his bride, and she throws herself into the sea as dawn breaks. Her body dissolves into foam, but instead of ceasing to exist, she feels the sun; she has turned into a spirit, a daughter of the air. The other daughters tell her she has become like them because she strove with all her heart to obtain an immortal soul. She will earn her own soul by doing good deeds and she will eventually rise up into the kingdom of God.” *

“That’s not the version I heard growing up.”

“That was the original, a summary of it, by Hans Christian Andersen. It’s also the one told by my _own_ people; I have a theory that it was stolen or that Mr. Andersen was actually a merman. However, that is neither here nor there. Do you see the flaw in the story?”

John had grown pale, “You’re telling me something is wrong with Sherlock? He’s going to die without me?”

Mycroft laughed, “Oh, no! No, the little mermaid isn’t _Sherlock_ … she’s me.”

“You?” John asked, completely baffled.

“Yes, me. _Now_ do you see the problem with the story?”

John shook his head, completely confused.

“I don’t believe in God,” Mycroft replied, his face turning a kind of cold blank that Sherlock would have envied.

Every alarm in John’s brain went off and he was up off the bed and firing off shots before his brain properly registered the action. Sherlock may have called himself a high functioning sociopath, but here was a proper _psycho_ path, and John had no doubt that he wouldn’t survive the night if Mycroft did. Sadly, the man merely grinned at him wickedly from behind the shielded figure that had burst in the door. Gas filled the room. John attempted to crawl out the window but was thwarted by a billy club from a second assailant coming down hard on the back of his head.

XXX

John woke up in shackles, his arms chained above his head as his body struggled to draw in air due to the stretched position. His shoulder felt as if it was on fire, so much so that he blinked at it in concern before looking around the room he was in. It was actually a cave, and John was shocked to find himself dangling over a tank which had several octopi swimming around in it.

“This just went from weird to stupid,” John muttered, his voice gravely from the gas he’d breathed in, “How the hell did I get in a [1960’s spy show](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bG0u3-Gbu88)?”

“Oh, really,” Mycroft’s voice taunted John, though he couldn’t locate the source, “Secret Agent Man? Haven’t we been over this? It’s a great deal closer to Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. Besides, you are far too _obvious_ to be a _spy.”_

Mycroft appeared then, naked and in human form, and calmly walked up to the controls for the winch John was tied to. He slowly lowered John into the water, causing him to shiver at the resulting chill.

“You’re going to transform me into one of those _things_?”

“Yes, and if you retain your mind- Sherlock things they do, but I’ve seen no evidence to support that theory- then I will give you a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” John asked, fear and despair filling him. If he were altered like this Sherlock would _never_ want him again!

“You can rejoin Sherlock- if he’ll have you- or you can turn into sea foam.”

John blinked in confusion.

“Of course,” Mycroft continued, “I’m speaking metaphorically. You will be given the option to find, organize, and _lead_ the cecaelians. Cecaelians are the octopus hybrids, by the way.”

“I assumed,” John grunted, then shifted uncomfortably as the octopus in the tank began to wrap itself around his leg, “Ow! It’s fucking biting me!”

“It thinks you’re dinner. Don’t worry, this will be over soon.”

“Easy for you to say!” John snapped, “You aren’t about to become an eight legged freak of nature!”

Mycroft gave John a sad smile and threw a switch on the wall.

Everything exploded into mind-numbing pain, a high-pitched whine almost deafened him, and he was quite certain his skin was peeling off and his bones melting. Thankfully, John fainted from the pain after only a few minutes.

XXX

Sherlock swam into the lab and slipped up onto the rock, pulling Angel up after him. He used the hair dryer only on himself as he was concerned the heat and dryness would be bad for her sensitive skin and scales. Once he was able to walk, he scooped the fussing child up, and laid her across his shoulder to carry. She was a happy thing, cooing once she could look around again. Sherlock was only sorry that she wasn’t _his_ child. He would have dearly loved to have a tiny piece of John with him still.

Then Sherlock froze, because the formerly empty tank had something moving within its murky depths. Sherlock laid Angel down on a small belly rug on the floor and walked slowly over to the tank, carefully scooping up the nearby harpoon. Tentacles- technically called ‘arms’ on an octopus- moved across the surface of the tank, proving to him that the occupant was a good ten times larger than it should have been.

_He created more? Why? They’re already out there breeding… unless he found out the second female didn’t survive. How long does he intend this war to go on?_

The surface rippled and a head emerged from the water, stealing Sherlock’s air from his lungs and causing the harpoon to clatter to the ground.

“John!”

 

*This is a direct copy from Wikipedia. Yes, I’m lazy.

[Holmes Loch Ness Monster Clip](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtPlz14qFOA) – Finding this clip was like finding a gold nugget in the bottom of your cracker jacks box instead of a plastic ring. My muse just about pissed herself with joy.

[CHAPTER 15](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/89619.html)


	15. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 15

Sherlock’s first instinct was to rush to his mate’s side and pull him out of the water to keep him from the cecaelian inside the tank, but his mind was spinning ahead of his body’s reactions.

“Sherlock,” John spoke softly, “I’m sorry. I figured out what Mycroft was doing, but I couldn’t stop him by myself.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, and walked across the room to cup his hand over his lover’s cheek, “John there’s no stopping it now. We can only hope that not many more people have to die.”

“I… listen, you should go. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t care.”

John sighed, putting his hand over the one that cupped his cheek, and pressed it firmly against him.

“I’ve _ached_ for you.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock smiled softly, but his voice held none of the bite it usually did, “Come out of there.”

“I can’t. I’m some sort of _thing_ now…”

“You can walk on dry land, John. He made the perfect enemy for us both. You don’t need to live in water the way octopi do, but you can survive in depths that my people can’t, and you’re a cecaelian, not a _thing._ ”

“Alright, but I’m warning you. You don’t want to see this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave him a withering glare to remind him that he could very well decide what he did and didn’t want to see himself, and then stepped back to give John room to move. He had evidently been here for enough time to adjust somewhat to his limbs, as when he came up over the rim of the tank he was fairly steady. In fact, he _flowed_ , his eight tentacles moving gracefully as the suckers manipulated the world around them easily. He ‘walked’ up one side of the vertical side of the tank and down the other as though they were stairs.

Sherlock took a moment to take in the changes in his mate. John’s coloring was the same; his tentacles had a slightly blue tint on the top but were a sandy tan on the underside. His back had two hooded flaps, which he would use to swim at speeds that would rival Sherlock’s own as well as to breathe under water. Though not visible, Sherlock knew that beneath the tentacles that were spread out about him like a ball gown was a new orifice, a mouth that Mycroft had modified to be their only weakness beneath a body of otherwise unimaginable strength and grace. The weakness was a simple one, while the cecaelians had the poison, ink, speed, and strength of the octopi, they were lacking the beak used to eat and their internal organs were changed so that the mouth in their heads no longer lead to their stomachs- only to the lungs they would use when on land. They were only able to consume mashed food, which made eating a long chore, as they had to first chew it in their upper mouths before transferring it down to the other one. In a water-filled world, this meant that most of their meal would be washed away before being consumed. They _had_ to eat on land if they wanted to maintain the strength in that overwhelmingly powerful, four-thousand-calorie-a-day-consuming, body. Their double hearts were the only things saving them from being the aquatic equivalent of a humming bird.

“I’m not even a man anymore,” John stated mournfully, “There’s literally _nothing_ you could ever want from me anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, confused by his statement, “I’m not technically a ‘man’ either. I’m a merman.”

“I haven’t got a… I’m missing my…” John flushed and looked away, ashamed of his reaction.

“Your penis?” Sherlock asked in confusion, “Don’t be ridiculous. One of your arms will serve as penis; it’s called a hectocotylus. Mycroft modified it so it no longer breaks off during mating.”

John’s face blanched, “Remind me to thank him for that later.”

Sherlock snickered and they both burst out laughing, the tension in the room relaxing a bit. Sherlock moved closer, glad to see that John was able to move his tentacles aside to make room for him when he concentrated. Once close enough he wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck, surprised at the new sensation of having to reach _up_ to do so.

“You also won’t _die_ after mating,” Sherlock purred, flirting with him eagerly. It had been so _long_ and the alterations did absolutely nothing to dissuade him from lusting after John.

“Was… was that supposed to be seductive?” John asked, looking slightly horrified, confused, and hopeful.

Sherlock frowned and tried again, this time going for something disgustingly sappy, “Now you can hold me _four_ times tighter than before.”

“Four?”

“Eight limbs, two each to hold… John, you’re not making this easy for me,” Sherlock snapped irritably.

John smiled, a look of relief on his face, “You’re adorable when you’re trying to flirt with me.”

“I’m not trying to be _adorable_ ,” Sherlock all but shouted, “I’m trying to be sexy!”

“Then stop trying. You already are, you arse,” John laughed, and finally put his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock took that moment to completely disgrace himself by all but swooning in John’s arms, a sigh of relief at the heady feel of his lover’s strong grip around him descending into a whimper of need.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, his pupils dilating as two tentacles began to creep around Sherlock’s legs.

Two things went wrong at once. Sherlock’s legs started to turn scaly and wobble from the water still dripping from John’s tentacles, and Angel began to cry.

Sherlock swore, backed away, and quickly wiped himself off with a towel before heading over to check on his niece.

“You had a baby?” John asked, and Sherlock turned to scold him for being an idiot to find him looking at Angel with such absolute longing that his response died in his throat.

“Her name is Angel,” Sherlock replied instead.

“Can I hold her?” John asked, hands already reaching forward.

“Just mind your tentacles. I’m not confident in your use of them yet. Did I mention the _poison_ you’re capable of producing?”

“I’ll be careful,” John nodded, and tucked her close to his bare chest to stare down at her wide eyes.

Angel stopped crying to look up at John in wonder and Sherlock’s mind went into overdrive to think of a way out.

“How comfortable _are_ you with those new limbs?”

“I won’t poison our daughter, Sherlock,” John scowled.

“Can you poison the men keeping me prisoner?” Sherlock asked, pointing towards the water where his guards were lurking.

John’s eyes narrowed murderously, “Fuck yeah, I can. And if I can’t figure the poison part out I’ll _strangle_ them with them.”

John passed Angel off to Sherlock and flowed towards the water like a wet dream… then floundered and flipped upside down like a bath toy once he got into it. Sherlock put Angel into her crib and rushed forward, worried that John would be killed before he could get all ten of his limbs under his own control, but he vanished into the depths. Sherlock jumped in, transforming almost instantly, and looked around. John was further up the passage, his tentacles reaching ahead and around like eight little soldiers to explore where his eyes couldn’t reach.

“There’s no one here,” John said in confusion, “I guess Mycroft was serious.”

“Serious about what?” Sherlock asked, his suspicion rising.

“He said if you didn’t reject me I could have you back, or I could go lead the cecaelians into battle.”

“So I’m free?” Sherlock asked, completely shocked, and then swore and swam back to the surface as quickly as he could.

Angel’s crib was empty.

“I’ll kill him!” John raged, having surfaced completely silently behind Sherlock.

“No wait!” Sherlock shouted, but there was no rushing after John without his _legs,_ as the far passage was entirely dry.

Sherlock set about drying his legs as quickly as he could, frantic to reach John. The alterations in his physiology included in increase in testosterone. They were meant to be emotionally unstable without mates to vent their hormonal overdrive on. He needed to find John and coax him into sexual release before he went on a killing spree!

_That’s what this has all been about. Mycroft has been planning_ exactly _this all along. John was_ meant _to be the one released, not the others! My John, my soldier, my doctor, my_ mate, _was meant to be the catalyst for our worlds to unite… at the expense of me having to watch him be killed; A fitting punishment for a rebellious subject if ever my brother thought of one._

Sherlock finally was able to get his legs under him and took off after his mutinous mate, following his scent down halls until he managed to locate him. Mycroft was there, holding his daughter tightly to his chest and laughing. Armed guards surrounded him. John was on the ground and Sherlock threw himself down beside him with a frightened cry. Thankfully he was only unconscious: tranquilized apparently. Sherlock glanced down to see red dots dancing on his chest. He wasn’t foolish enough to assume he’d be spared a real bullet.

“Oh, Sherlock, you do play an interesting game,” Mycroft chuckled, “You told him Angel was _yours_? Did he rationalize her age on his own, or were you the one who planted the idea that I somehow collected his semen for you?”

“That was his idea, though an adequate one,” Sherlock replied, glaring up at his brother, “You can’t mean to keep her, Mycroft. Not after what you did to her sire.”

“She is my daughter,” Mycroft replied, his face going cold, “You can’t mean to separate her from her bearer, not when her sire was so coldly murdered. She’d be all alone.”

“She’d have me. She’d have John. He’ll love her like his own, even now he knows the truth,” Sherlock let a pleading note creep into his voice, even though he knew Mycroft wouldn’t really believe it, “Let us _go._ Completely.”

“I doubt he was every fully deceived,” Mycroft snorted, “His own senses would have told him she was neither of yours. He just _wanted_ to believe it.”

“That only _proves_ that he’d be a good father to her. Let her _go_ Mycroft. She doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in a madmerman’s game.”

Mycroft scowled, “She will be nothing of the sort. My child will grow up privileged and happy. I’ve seen to that. I may have made a mistake in her sire, choosing someone I lusted after instead of an _intelligent_ match, but that won’t be the case from now on. Jim will make a fantastic father, don’t you think? Our brilliance will change- _has changed-_ the world!”

“Jim… Moriarty? You’re pairing up with _Moriarty?!_ ” Sherlock asked. It was rare that he was stunned, but in this moment he truly was, “He’s even more mad than you are! He’s a criminal! He funded his ‘Mermaid Expeditions’ with the blood of innocent human beings!”

“He funded this project and my rise to power in the human world with those same funds,” Mycroft smirked, “He is quite the entrepreneur.”

“He’s a criminal and a murderer!” Sherlock snapped, “As are you! How _could_ you? How _could_ you kill your own mate?!”

Mycroft’s gaze faltered, sorrow and regret flashed across his face and for a just a moment hope blossomed in Sherlock’s rarely-used heart. Then a figure stepped into the room in a sharp suit, looking entirely out of place amongst the naked mermen and women in the room. Yet his cool confidence made all attention swivel his way even as the guns remained pointed at Sherlock.

“I don’t think we’ve been _properly_ introduced,” A lilting Irish voice sang at Sherlock, “Jim Moriarty. _Hi!”_

 

A/N: If you have a chance to look up some octopi videos I highly recommend it. They’re amazingly graceful creatures.

[CHAPTER 16](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/89925.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 16

John drifted awake slowly; unsure if the sensations around him were real or an absolutely beautiful dream. He could smell the ocean as well as Sherlock’s own unique musk. He seemed to be wafting in a soft cloud. Hands were carding through his hair in tender caresses until he sighed happily.

“Are you in pain? Sick?” Sherlock’s deep voice whispered to him.

“No. S’perfect.”

“Open your eyes,” Sherlock pointed out.

“M’happy. Don wanna wake up.”

“You must, John. We have much to plan for.”

“Plan?” John’s eyes fluttered open, and then he gasped in surprise at the sight of Sherlock upside-down with his hair wafting around his head, “The fuck?”

Sherlock chuckled and John rolled over and found himself spinning momentarily. He glared at Sherlock from his new angle and the man smirked at him. John felt that eerie shift of far more limbs than he was used to and self-consciously tucked them. They responded as naturally as his legs did if he just didn’t _think_ about them. If he actually sat there and focused on it he would immediately start tripping over them like a teenager who had grown too quickly for his brain to process the stretch.

“Don’t,” Sherlock scowled at him, “There’s nothing _wrong_ with you. You’re simply a new species. It’s neat.”

“Neat,” John repeated, straight-faced.

“Fascinating?” Sherlock tried, and John watched his face take on that frustrated look he had when he was trying to figure out how ‘normal’ people would behave in this situation.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” John sighed, “You’re doing and saying the right thing. The problem is on my end this time.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied, looking relieved, “Well, that’s good then. Now, we have some decisions to make…”

“Oh, no. You tell me what happened back there first. No leaving me in the dark like you always do. And I want an explanation for why you decided to let me think Angel was _our_ child.”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock sighed, but reached out to stroke a tentacle in the hopes of distracting John from the tediousness of relating events to him.

“I don’t want you touching them,” John replied, flushing red and jerking his extra limbs away.

“That’s ridiculous, you’re my _mate_ , and you also have a larger sex drive that requires regular completion to keep your testosterone levels low enough to keep your moods in check.”

“I’ll wank… somehow,” John replied, “Just give me time to _adjust_ to this, okay? You can’t be as accepting of this as you seem, Sherlock. I mean… I’ve got no fucking _legs_ or _dick!_ ”

John motioned down to his lower half and Sherlock shrugged, “I grew up without seeing legs or external penises. Your alterations seem more natural to me, not less.”

John seemed comforted but still edged away when Sherlock reached for his new appendages. Sherlock settled for holding John’s hand as he began to recount what had happened after John had been rendered unconscious.

_Flashback_

Jim Moriarty walked across the cave, his shoes clicking on the floor, and Sherlock briefly indulged in a fantasy in which the grip-less bottoms of them slipped on the slick floor and sent him to his posh bottom.

“This is a turn-up isn’t it, Sherlock?” Moriarty taunted, “Oh, I bet you never saw _this_ coming. I’ve slithered my way into your _family.”_

With that statement, Moriarty reached out and scooped the tiny mermaid from Mycroft’s arms, cradling her gently in his arms. She was in her human form at the moment, her tiny legs twitching uselessly in the air. Sherlock experienced a moment of very unfamiliar horror; this child had somehow become _important_ to him, and the list of _important_ people in Sherlock’s life was very small and steadily dwindling.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. Some of it you soused out, you and your little _detective friends_ , but that was just the tip of the iceberg. I’m a specialist, you see… like you!”

“A consulting criminal,” Sherlock nodded, “I’ve suspected it for some time. The spider at the center of a web of crime that stretches across London… perhaps even the world.”

“Just. So.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock whispered despite himself, “And your mermaid hunting was just a lark, then?”

“A hobby, and one I never really expected to bear fruit. It was also a cover for drug running, but you already knew that.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, “Which had to stop when I jumped off that bridge in broad daylight and your man took a shot at me. Where is he, anyway?”

“Seb? Oh, he’s around. He’s _always_ around. He’s the sort you don’t see until _after_ you hear the rifle. Well, except you’re dead by then… so…” Moriarty trailed off, looking momentarily thoughtful, “Well, that’s beside the point. No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will.”

“I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did!” Moriarty smirked.

Mycroft meanwhile was growing more and more outraged, glancing back and forth between Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock smirked, amused by his reaction.

“Something wrong, brother?” Sherlock taunted, “Haven’t you told _Jim_ here your plans?”

Mycroft licked his lips and glanced sideways at Moriarty who was ignoring his presence completely, “He’s well aware of my goals.”

“Is he?” Sherlock asked, “You’ve invested so much in him, far more than he invested in you, and here he is _flirting_ with _me_. With your own brother.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Moriarty cut him off, “But the flirting’s over, Sherlock. Daddy’s had _enough now_! I’ve invested quite a bit of quid in this little venture of your brothers, and I _always_ collect on my investments. So take this as a friendly warning, _my dear._ Do as you’re told. Play the cards I’ve slipped into your deck. Otherwise…”

Moriarty looked down at Angel and bounced her lightly in his arms, shushing her though she had made no noise. Sherlock felt that painful clench again, but he knew Moriarty wasn’t the key- not at this moment. Mycroft was the vulnerable one, which was why he directed his words towards him.

“Look what he’s taken from you, brother. First your mate, and now he’s holding and threatening your _child_. Will you let him take me as well? Your future nieces and nephews? What more will you give to this man, to this _python_ who squeezes the life out of you and swallows it whole? He is not yet gorged; more and more people will die…”

Moriarty cut their dialogue off: “That’s what people DO!!”

“Give her back to me,” Sherlock told him, “Give her back and leave and I’ll do as you wish.”

“ _Exactly_ as I wish?” Moriarty asked, licking his lips and staring at Sherlock predatorily.

“Exactly as you wish,” Sherlock replied, shuddering at the thought.

Moriarty stepped towards Sherlock, the child still held in his arms, and Mycroft took in a terrified breath as it seemed he was about to see his daughter given away. Sherlock fought down the smile that would give him away; his goal had just been met.

“ _Boring_ ,” Moriarty singsonged, “I’m not going to give up my collateral, do you think this is a _common_ criminal you’re dealing with? I’m not like _them_ , Mr. Holmes. I’m not on the side of the angels. Do you know what happens, Sherlock, if you don’t do as you’re told? To you?”

“Oh, let me guess, I get killed,” Sherlock replied with a bored sigh.

“ _Kill_ you? Uh, no, don’t be obvious. I mean I’m going to kill you anyway, someday. I don’t want to rush it, though. It could be years, or decades… or minutes. No, no, no, no, no, if you don’t play your part… I’ll _burn_ you. I’ll burn the _heeeart_ out of you.”

“Not to worry, John here has two. I’ll borrow one of his,” Sherlock replied coldly.

Moriarty chuckled, “We both know you’d never take anything of his, would you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. They both knew where his weaknesses lay, and both of them were currently defenseless.

“Well,” Moriarty continued with a smirk, “So nice to have had a proper chat, but you two have to be off now. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

_End Flashback_

“Then I woke up here in this cave, where they must have stashed us.”

“Then… you meant all along to raise Angel as ours?”

“Of course. I couldn’t leave my niece with my obviously _mad_ brother.”

“Well, I feel a bit better about assuming she was mine, so what do we do to get her back?”

Sherlock sighed, “I’d like to go out and get our bearings, but those guards were meant to do more than keep me in line.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cecaelians, John. They’re going to kill me on sight. I helped make them into what they are, and they aren’t any more comfortable with it than _you_ are.”

“That’s a bit not good,” John mused, “Well we can’t stay here forever. I, for one, am starving.”

John noticed Sherlock give him a worried look.

“What?” John asked, “Don’t tell me my only food source is merpeople or humans?”

“Thankfully, no, but eating _is_ a bit more complicated in this form. We’ll make due for now. I’ll help you.”

“Right. Okay, so no food for now. I’ll survive for a bit with a rumbling stomach. So how many of these cecaelians are there?”

“Three, possibly four,” Sherlock replied, “Two males and one-to-two females.”

“That’s it? Mycroft was going to take over the world with four cecaelians?”

“Actually, they were just prototypes. I believe he was going to kill them off, or put them under your command had he not lost control of both them and _you_ so soon.”

“Wait, so _I’m_ Doctor Octopus?”

Sherlock blinked and gave him a confused look, “If you like.”

“The super villain?”

“Though his intentions _are_ eventually peaceful, I believe Mycroft would be the villain. Now accrediting him the title of _super…”_

“Sherlock, stop talking.”

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but it’s not important.”

Sherlock was glad that their conversation had distracted John suitably, because two of his tentacles were wrapping lazily around Sherlock’s tail. Sadly, he noticed them before long and pulled them back before Sherlock could get more than a bit aroused.

“Right, so we need to feed you and then get our plans underway.”

“What plans are those?” John asked, “What can we do? I think if we contact Lestrade he’ll work with us, but how can we get ahold of him?”

Sherlock gave John a curious look, “Lestrade is dead.”

“Wh-what?” John asked, blanching.

“Mycroft killed him. He was the mate I mentioned a moment ago. Didn’t you know?”

“Gods, no!” John replied, looking distraught, “I had no idea! How long?”

“A few days,” Sherlock replied, “He murdered him the same night his creatures escaped. I’ve no idea of his motives, his madness has reached a level that I am unable to fathom.”

“I think I know,” John replied softly.

“Why?” Sherlock asked eagerly, his face showing his fury at John having figured something out before him.

“Because he made him a better person,” John replied softly, taking Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it gently.

XXX

Feeding John with a second person present turned out to be easier than Sherlock had thought it would. A shark wandered across them before any cecaelians, attracted by Sherlock’s still healing wounds, and John launched his overly-hormonal body at it like a fleshy bullet. His first instinct was to poison, which he did and the thrashing creature soon stilled, but his second instinct to start chowing down was flawed.

“I can _taste_ it but I can’t…” John snapped in frustration, letting go and watching the creature float dead in the water.

“Drag it in here,” Sherlock instructed, “We can defend the cave better and feeding you is going to take time, especially if he keeps attracting other sharks.”

“Could you not refer to my food as ‘he’? I’m a bit uncomfortable with the fact that you can talk to all your meals.”

“That’s the flaw with you humans,” Sherlock scoffed, “If _you_ could hear the melancholy of every cow and chicken you eat then you’d be a far more peaceful race.”

“Or vegetarians.”

“There aren’t enough edible plants to sustain my people. Eating our neighbors, as painlessly as possible, is the best solution.”

John blanched, the shark halfway in their hidey-hole, “Neighbors? Please tell me you don’t practice cannibalism.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Other creatures eat our dead, not us. It’s one thing to be able to _speak_ to your supper, it’s another thing entirely to have _slept_ with, raised, or been raised by them. We also have no concept of vengeance. If a shark eats your best friend it’s a sad affair, but no fault of the sharks. They’re just as hungry as we are.”

“Ah, the circle of life,” John quipped.

Sherlock gave him a considering look, “An appropriate term, yes.”

John rolled his eyes and pinned the fish down with two tentacles while the other two gripped a rock and the remaining explored the shark hungrily.

“I’m _starved_ , Sherlock. I mean it, I’ve never been this hungry in my life.”

“Patience. I need access to your mouth, John. You’re going to need to let me near your lower half.”

John shuddered in revulsion at the idea of Sherlock looking at or touching him _down there,_ but he allowed it, manipulating his tentacles until they were out of both their way, “Okay, done.”

“Good, now keep an open mind, please?”

Sherlock leaned forward, bared his ridiculously sharp merman teeth, and ripped a chunk of white flesh out of the shark. He spat out the first layer, peeled away the outer flesh, and dove in for the healthiest portions of flesh. Once he had it he chewed it the way he would Angel’s food, swam down to John’s nether regions, and pressed his mouth to them.

John squirmed miserably for a moment as he felt the duel sensation of arousal- that translated more as frustration without a penis to become erect- at Sherlock’s proximity and disgust at his freakish body. Then he _tasted_ the meat and that sealed it for him, his body reacted instinctively and John could taste Sherlock’s lips and then the wonderful sensation of _sustenance_ entering that strange new orifice below him. This continued until half the shark was consumed. Then Sherlock lashed his tail until the wafting remains were pushed out of their cave.

John sighed in comfort, his aching belly finally full, but Sherlock interrupted his moment of comfort by pouncing on him.

“I can’t stand it, John,” Sherlock growled, “I’ve been without you for _four years_ , you can’t mean to keep denying me now!”

Sherlock was shocked when John shoved him forcefully away and curled up against the wall of the cave, pressing himself as small as possible.

“Sherlock… don’t.”

“Bloody hell, John, I’m not going to _rape_ you!” Sherlock snarled angrily, “You’re my _mate_!”

“I know. I’m sorry, I’m just so fucking _scared!”_

John looked away in shame but Sherlock stared closely in confusion, “You don’t _appear_ scared, John. You are rarely afraid, if ever. One of the bravest and most sure men I’ve ever met- from either of our worlds.”

“Not that kind of scared, Sherlock,” John replied sadly, “I’m afraid of _myself_. I’m afraid of hurting you. I just killed a fucking _shark_ by hugging it!”

“You won’t hurt me,” Sherlock tried to sooth, “You’re my mate.”

“You keep saying that, but I’ve never read anything about octopuses mating for life! Or humans, for that matter!” John shouted, causing Sherlock to flinch. John winced, “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand your world, John, but I do understand _you_. You won’t hurt me, but you _must_ engage in sexual release or you’ll become overly aggressive. At least let me _hold_ you, love.”

Sherlock put his arms out, moving his hands beckoningly, and John slowly eased out from against the wall and moved slowly towards him.

“Slowly, yeah?” John asked, “Let me get used to this body… to touching you like this and being touched.”

Sherlock nodded, fully willing to go slowly if it got John into his arms again. John moved gracefully, but with hesitance and it took all of the restraint Sherlock possessed not to grab him and shake some sense into him. The man wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders but kept his tentacles far behind himself, arching his more flexible hips to keep them away.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“ _Slowly_ ,” John insisted back.

John leaned forward for a kiss, but Sherlock pulled away this time.

“Last I checked, that’s not the half you’re having trouble with.”

“Sherlock, I said _slow_.”

“And I said _let me hold you_. I had my mouth down there before, I’m not going to die from eating you out.”

Sherlock slipped down and gently coaxed John’s limbs forward. John shuddered as Sherlock’s caress brought longing and desire to the surface. Sherlock floated perpendicular to John’s body, slowly manipulating his limbs; draping them around his body like decorative scarves. John looked down on him and watched the subtle sway of his body, the motions of a belly dancer in the form of a beautiful merman. The sight of his blue-on-tan limbs draped over Sherlock’s pale-over-deep-purple body fascinated John. He couldn’t resist wrapping them around him and pulling him closer. Sherlock ran his hands along John’s underside, caressing the base of the third limb which John cold feel a subtle swelling in.

_Must be that hectocotylus thing Sherlock mentioned._

Sherlock wondered at the feel of John’s limbs. He’d rarely had a chance to touch the previous cecaelians limbs. John’s thick tentacles were warm, slightly rubbery but with a subtle human skin texture. The suckers were inactive where his hands touched them, but were starting to explore Sherlock’s body. He arched and moaned appreciatively as a thousand small mouths touched his heated body, some tickling but most stimulating him to near distraction. The longer third limb, smoother at the end, which John would use for mating purposes, drifted into his sight. Sherlock stroked it and felt the sperm sacks inside begin to swell in answer to a call to mate, filling with fluid which would burst when he reached culmination; it was a sensation that the other cecaelians had seemed to enjoy as much as ejaculation in their previous forms if their repeated self stimulation was anything to go by.

John found Sherlock’s perfect cupid bow lips pressed to his own, and moaned into his mouth eagerly. Sherlock’s tongue invaded and John shuddered at the recollection of tasting him in a completely different way. He wanted to taste _all_ of Sherlock, everywhere. Desire was pulsing in him in ways he’d never known before, his tentacles wrapping around Sherlock’s body the way they had the shark’s, but with the intense need to satisfy a completely different urge. John felt like his mind was slipping away to be replaced by something wild and carnal; he tried to pull back just once, but Sherlock whimpered so desperately that he was back against him instantly, nipping and licking his neck.

John’s hands grasped Sherlock’s shoulders as he pressed him against himself, he could feel his hips swivel of their own volition and the area where bone vanished and unrelenting muscle began grasped Sherlock tightly. Sherlock gasped, and John feared he’d harmed him, but then he felt the unmistakable push of Sherlock’s cock emerging from his penile slit. John moaned, and wrapped his second mouth around Sherlock’s dick greedily.

“Oh gods, I can _taste_ your cock! It’s like I’m sucking you off…”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. He’d expected the feel of a mouth on his cock, but instead he found what felt like dozens of lips mouthing at his cock, sucking and massaging his member. Sherlock’s cock began to thrust into the wet heat wrapped around him, unsure how much the fleshy tube could take, but it was soon obvious that John was as eager to receive his thrusts as Sherlock was to give them.

Sherlock threw his head back, a soft cry of shocked excitement echoing in their cave, his eyes were wide with shock as John greedily sucked on his frantically thrusting cock. This wouldn’t take long, and they both knew it, but John was relentless in his pursuit of Sherlock’s and his own pleasure. He wasn’t keeping track of his new additions, and was shocked when a jolt of pleasure shot through him. Sherlock had gotten his own limbs under control and was caressing John’s tentacles firmly, sending sparks of arousal through him.

“Fuck! It feels like you’re jerking me off when you do that,” John gasped, hips pistoning uselessly. There was no need for them to move in this form.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, “Please! I… I’m so close!”

Sherlock was _trembling_ , and gods wasn’t that a gorgeous, humbling, empowering, fascinating, frightening, arousing, mind-blowing, insert-adjective-here thing. One of John’s tentacles, the longest and smoothest of the eight, plunged into Sherlock’s gaping entrance, and they both gasped at the sensation. John felt as if he were both fucking and being fucked by Sherlock. He could _taste_ his cock and feel the tight, slick grasp of his passage around his own ‘cock’. He flexed the tentacle experimentally, his eyes rolling in his head as pleasure shot up and down his limbs.

“Oh _gods!_ ” John gasped, and then Sherlock was coming with a strangled scream as John’s motions grazed his prostate.

John greedily swallowed Sherlock’s come down, moaning in appreciation of the salty contribution, even as his tentacle took up a hungry thrusting, wriggling motion as he chased his own release. Sherlock was clawing at his back, babbling something about ‘too much’, but John was lost to pleasure. He eased two more tentacles into Sherlock’s penile slit, sliding just the tips of them above and below Sherlock’s still pulsing member. Sherlock _screamed_ , and John cried out as the merman’s muscles clenched around him.

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from making any more shameful noises, his body oversensitive and shrieking for rest, but John was wild with desire that he _needed_ to slake and Sherlock had no intention of stopping him. In fact, he wriggled and moaned enthusiastically, teasingly stroking his limbs, and then was shocked to feel a press against his lips. He opened his mouth and another of John’s tentacles pressed deep into his mouth, choking him and making breathing difficult as they pressed against the soft internal walls of his gills. Sherlock’s eyes bugged a moment, he panicked and fought, and then stilled as a wave of calm washed over him. Sherlock stopped trying to keep their relative position steady, he stopped trying to touch John, he stopped fighting for air, _he stopped thinking,_ he simply went limp and gave himself over to his mate. _This_ was peace. _This_ was calm. _This_ was handing control over completely and allowing himself to _rest_ in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. His mind was no longer screaming at him to _do something_ , it was passive and focused entirely on physical sensation as pleasure curled tighter and tighter inside of his abdomen. Sherlock’s internal testicles were contracting for another climax, but instead of hyper-focusing on it and attempting to bring it about at _his_ time, Sherlock lay there and let it wash over him .

Having subdued his rebellious mate, John began to thrust the tentacle in his mouth as well, moaning at the sensual feel of his lover’s tongue against his flesh. Sherlock was undone, moaning and writhing and all but _sobbing_ in pleasure. The repetitive clench and pull of Sherlock’s body was driving John wild, especially when his cock took up renewed vigor and began to thrust into his oral cavity again. John pulled his tentacle from Sherlock’s mouth and moaned the man’s name, simply because it needed to be said, and Sherlock echoed his cry with John’s name.

John couldn’t even begin to describe the sensation of ejaculating in cecaelian form. It started with a building pressure, then a swelling sensation, then an overwhelming _force_ similar to when he shot poison into the shark, then pleasure erupted along every nerve ending, in every tentacle, and shot all the way up his spine. _Something_ erupted inside of that limb, and he could feel several soft pushes as he came _hard_ inside Sherlock’s tight body, pushing something closer to soft lumps out instead of liquid. Each time one of them pressed out of it’s slot a shiver of pleasure went through John’s body until he could barely _breathe_.

Sherlock’s orgasm surprised John, as he’d been so preoccupied with his new body, but he greedily swallowed down the small amount of ejaculate as Sherlock whimpered and shivered through his second climax. The merman went limp in John’s limbs, his head on his mate’s shoulder as he dropped instantly to sleep. John was feeling sleepy as well and wrapped himself tightly around Sherlock to slumber, their bodies floating lazily in the cave until they settled against the ocean floor in a soft, satisfied pile. 

Some NSFW artwork w/ merlock and octojohn. 

["Stop It John, You're Distracting Me" by Beansterpie](http://beansterpie.tumblr.com/post/58319631826/stop-it-john-youre-distracting-me-i-got-a)

 

[CHAPTER 17](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/90191.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 17

John and Sherlock were having a swimming lesson. It wasn’t _meant_ to be one. Sherlock had wanted to head for shore and John had wanted to as well, but then had ended up spinning about in circles. Without cave walls to hold on to he was having trouble propelling himself forward. Sherlock was impatiently instructing him to use the two sacks on his back for forward motion while directing and pushing a bit with his tentacles. John was having trouble using the new muscles on his back, but understood the principle easily. All he needed to do was fill the sacks with water and push it out, almost like breathing.

“So if we don’t do as he says and start a war, he’s going to kill his own _child?_ ” John queried.

“I’d like to think that part was Moriarty’s plan, but yes,” Sherlock agreed as they swam carefully towards shore, “Mycroft seems to think that your nature will cause you to wage war without his interference, and he’s only half right. If you go strolling up on shore to have a bite to eat without my help you’ll attract attention of the negative sort.”

“Negative sort? Try anything from a mob of terrified Englishmen kicking me to death, to the bloody English Army!”

“Stoning seems more likely than kicking,” Sherlock decided.

“Right. Stoning. So, what are we supposed to do about this and why are we heading towards my inevitable stoning?”

“We aren’t, we’re going to enact our own plan and hope my first one was successful.”

“Meaning?”

“I made several attempts to get through to Mycroft about the safety of his child in Moriarty’s care. If he has any rationalization left he’ll take her and run immediately.”

“Are you willing to bet her life on that?” John asked.

“We’ll have to. The only other solution is to play into his hands by collecting the other cecaelians in an attempt to raid his stronghold, as we’ve no hope of getting in there on our own.”

John had to agree with that, “If his little fortress of solitude weren’t so damn straightforward we could sneak in, but there’s basically one entrance and one exit, both _very_ well guarded.”

“How can it be a fortress of solitude when he isn’t there alone?” Sherlock wondered, “Or were you being facetious?”

“Never mind. So what do we do instead?”

“Well, option two is that we really _do_ wage war against both species… a loosing battle.”

“To say the least!”

“Option three is that we plead to man’s better nature…”

John snorted, “Man has a better nature?”

“I’ve noticed it comes out in philanthropic situations. So we’re going to present you and your fellow creatures as endangered species and press for help. Instead of starting a war to unite the merpeople, we’re going to blame them for your situation and ask for humans to help in exchange for your own assistance with various activities.”

“Such as?”

“Gathering pearls, assistance with fishing expeditions, scientific exploration…”

“Okay, I get it, so we go to work for them and they’ll give us what we need, but what about the merpeople? We can’t just blame the Atlantians for everything. What if that causes a war the other way round?”

“That’s just it, my people are generally peaceful migrant hunter/gatherers. They’ll want nothing to do with humans. If we pin them as the bad sort, humans will likely shun them so long as we give them someone to study.”

John pulled up short in his rather slow forward motions and gaped at his lover, “You are _not_ putting yourself up as an experiment!”

“Just to zoologists. If we convince them of our intelligence first, and if we have the _public’s_ attention, we’ll be unlikely to be harassed by the government.”

John didn’t think that would work out well, and stated so, but Sherlock was insistent.

“It’s either that or wage war, John. We won’t be left in peace. It isn’t possible. We’re unbelievably lucky that none of the cecaelians have been captured yet; _if_ they haven’t in the time we were unconscious, that is.”

John was getting the hang of swimming and was soon going as fast as Sherlock was, a thrill that Sherlock seemed to be sharing with him if that small smile was any indication. His underwhelmed lover was only exuberantly expressive during sex, so John had to do a fair bit of interpreting outside of the ‘bedroom’. They soon reached a slope in the ocean floor and had to surface to avoid having to fight the undertow.

“It’s nice not to choke on air when I surface,” John mentioned as they looked up the shoreline, “Now what?”

“I’m going to go ashore and make contact with the humans. You’re going to find the cecaelians.”

“How am I to do that?” John asked in annoyance.

“Use your brain,” Sherlock replied, and then started to swim forward, “Deduce their location! We’ll meet here!”

“How will I even find my way back!”

“Use your nose and eyes!”

“Damn it, Sherlock!” John shouted back, but hovered where he was rather than chasing after him.

Sherlock swam ashore, opting to drag himself onto the beach despite the discomfort of the sand chaffing him. People were gathering around the area he was emerging from. Apparently they’d thought he was drowning as the lifeguard had ran out to him to help him ashore only to nearly drop him at the sight of a tail. John watched Sherlock be helped the rest of the way on shore and then begin to gesture wildly as he went into ‘character’. He was probably pretending to cry, too.

Seeing that he wasn’t in immediate danger from the excited denizens of the shore, John dove beneath the surface and began to sniff and look about himself. He had to remember how to get back to this location. He’d start deeper out to sea, since that was the last place he’d seen a cecaelian aside from the well-guarded Loch. Likely they were using buoys to climb on and feed themselves, so John would search for reefs. He hoped he could figure out how to find one or perhaps he could now speak to the wildlife? He gave it a try with a passing- very alarmed- fish. His adjustments didn’t seem to include his vocal chords, so John still wasn’t capable of speaking Sherlock’s language any more than he had before.

John got hit by a current and ended up spinning wildly for a few yards- or perhaps miles- and when he got free again he was completely lost.

XXX

Sherlock struggled through the shallows, waving his arms to ask for help until the lifeguard came bolting for the water. The man’s arms wrapped around Sherlock and lifted him from the water, and he might have swooned at the strong spectacle had his eyes not been for John alone.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Sherlock panted, then cried out as the man nearly dropped him.

“The fuck is this? Some kind of joke?!” The man demanded, meaning Sherlock’s tail.

“I need your help, please!” Sherlock pleaded, “They’ll kill my mate!”

“What?”

“Please, I know I’m strange looking, but I’m just as human as you are just… with a tail.”

“If this is some kind of joke,” The man repeated, clearly having reached the extent of his low IQ.

Sherlock was carried ashore and placed down amidst the circle of confused and excite people. Cell phones were chirping as people took pictures and panning as they filmed him.

“Are you a mermaid?”

“He’s a mer _man_ , can’t you see he hasn’t any tits?”

“Where are his bits?”

“Dennis, you watch your mouth or I’ll wash it out with soap!”

“Are you a mutant? Is this from pollution in the ocean?”

“Well no,” Sherlock replied to that one, “But I’d be thrilled if that stopped.”

That caught people off guard, as they apparently hadn’t actually been _expecting_ a response from him.

“You can speak?!” About ten people shouted at once.

“Of _course_ I can speak, I used to be human, or at least my people did. We simply grew fins. I’m not any different than you are for the most part, but that’s neither here nor there,” Sherlock explained quickly, “I’m Sherlock Holmes…”

“That detective bloke what threw himself into the river? You grew _fins_?!”

“I knew it! The river is polluted! We’re all going to turn into freaks!”

“Mutants!”

“X-men!”

“I want to do that fire thing! You know, flame on!”

“That’s not the X-men, you twat.”

“Who are you calling a twat, _norm_!”

“Who are you calling norm, you haven’t got shit for powers!”

A fight broke out and Sherlock took a moment to wonder how evolution hadn’t favored a more intelligent race… like rats or cockroaches or cats or…

“Hey, who called the coppers?!”

“Who called the reporters?!”

“Who _didn’t_ call the coppers and reporters? LOL!”

Sherlock sighed in relief. The word would be out faster than the government could cover it up, he just had to act his part now. The cameramen and women swarmed the beach, shouldering past people and leaning over Sherlock to shove microphones in his face. Sherlock summoned up an emotional tirade and let the dam break all over the evening news.

XXX

John was wandering the ocean aimlessly for two days, surfacing to feed himself by flipping upside down like an otter. Mycroft hadn’t thought that his creations would be smart enough to try _floating_ and eating, apparently. The downside to this was that predators drawn by the scent of his kills might attack him, but most just dove in and John wasn’t fool enough to fight them for it. That was, until the second day when his hormones started going wild again. He was lucky the shark that swam by was a small one; a larger one might have torn him apart since he was half mad with rage at the sight of something taking ‘his kill’. After that he found a quiet place to masturbate, recalling Sherlock’s warning that John needed regular sexual release to ward off his newfound, very intense, emotions. He was also afraid that he’d sexually assault someone- or something- if his arousal got the better of him, especially since he killed and fucked with the same eight limbs.

John found himself a very small nook between two rocks and pressed into it, his limbs curling around him like a soft pillow for his back and head. He reached down to touch the ‘mouth’ part beneath himself, but it didn’t provide much stimulation. That was when he recalled that his true arousal came from his tentacles. Feeling like a teenager trying to come for the first time, John slowly stroked along all eight of his limbs, twisting about to stimulate the ones behind him, until he started to figure out where the most sensitive parts were. The longest limb, the one with the smooth, somewhat narrower tip, which had ejaculated when he’d been having his way with Sherlock, seemed to be the most sensitive. John stroked it over and again, but it was awkward for him and he couldn’t get enough friction. Then he blushed as he recalled a filthy limerick about a man sucking himself off.

_Well, I guess I’m the man from Nantucket…_

John pressed his hectocotylus into his lower mouth and slowly, and hesitantly sucked it in. The reaction was instantaneous as arousal overwhelmed him and he clapped one hand over his upper mouth to stop himself screaming in pleasure, while the other grasped his cotylus to add more thrust as he writhed inside himself. John’s back tentacles gripped the rocks convulsively, partly in pleasure and partly to keep himself stationary as the currents swayed around him. Two of his tentacles had taken it upon themselves, apparently instinctively, to set about stroking the rest of his body. He found his suckers behaving as their name suggested on both nipples and groaned against his hand as his pleasure intensified. He was fairly certain he was giving himself several hickeys, but it felt so damn _good_ , even the parts that sucked just a bit too hard. John’s spine arched and he thrust deep inside himself as he came in several jarring explosions. He had a momentary confusion when he tasted his own semen, but his body could only swallow it down, so it required no thought or action on his part. John lazily thrusted a few more times as his body slowly relaxed into a delicious afterglow.

Then he opened his eyes and screamed properly at the sight of a face only an inch from his own, their noses almost touching. The woman jolted back in alarm, her tentacles wrapping around her protectively. For a moment they stared at each other in confusion, then she cleared her throat and asked him a hesitant question.

“Why did you do it that way?”

“That way?” John asked, his throat a bit hoarse.

“Why did you… I guess masturbate is the right term. Why not be with me? The others can’t seem to leave me alone for a second.”

“Ah… I’ve got a mate,” John explained, “The mating kind of mate, not just a friend.”

“Oh, really? Who? I thought Serena died?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who she is. My mate is a merman.”

“Really? They all seem terrified of us.”

“He’s not terrified of anything,” John replied, letting his tone convey his annoyance at that fact.

The woman chuckled, “I’m Sarah, pleased to meet you.”

“John. I’ve been looking for you and the others. We need to talk, make some plans… and then get to Montrose. My mate is there, or I hope he is.”

“I’ll take you to the others, but don’t be surprised if they’re not keen to hang about with those fish.”

“Fish?”

“Mermaids.”

“Oh… well, I suppose I can see why seeing as how they mucked about with us, but they’re not all bad. Most of them don’t even know what Mycroft Holmes was doing.”

Sarah didn’t answer, so John simply followed her until they got to an odd sort of dug out stone pit. It seemed they’d made a nest out of rocks. John hesitated a moment before entering, worrying for a bit that they’d attack him if he approached, but since Sarah seemed alright with it he simply followed her in. The inside was far less roomy than the outside implied, and John found himself rather closely pressed to two other… somethings?

“Welcome to Kraken Cave,” One of them quipped, and John gaped at the sight of Anderson.

Unlike Sarah, Anderson didn’t look like a cecaelian. He had shorter tentacles in front, further accenting his lack of legs, and a small dome-like rump out the back with what looked like a fleshy miniskirt fluttering around it. The look on him was something rather amusing, but on Donovan it was rather fetching. The third fellow in the cave, Dimmock, who also was sporting the schoolgirl skirt look, gave John a smirk and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t look too closely. He’ll mesmerize you. He’s a real prick like that.”

“Mesmer…” John blinked and looked away, only just then registering a pattern that was flitting across Anderson’s skin, “So I guess there are several kinds of us?”

“Not really,” Anderson groused, “You’re an octo-man and we’re _cuttlefish_.”

Anderson said the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Cuttlefish?” John forced his smirk down, he needed to befriend these people, not alienate them, “So we aren’t related then?”

“No, cuttlefish are related,” Sarah stated quietly, “They’re Cephalopoda with…”

“She’s a marine biologist,” Sally Donovan cut in, “Moriarty’s competition, apparently. We’ve voted that us cuttlefish types are called cephaelians.”

“Cephaelians. Fantastic. Good to meet you, but I hope you won’t think I’m amiss if I say I thought there were more cecaelians?”

“What aliens?” Anderson harrumphed.

“Octo-men?” John tried, “Apparently we’re called cecaelians, or at least that’s what Sherlock told me.”

Bad move. Very bad move, as everyone in the cave went silent and angry. John instinctively moved back a bit.

“Now hold on, he didn’t want to be there anymore than you lot did!”

“Says his fuckbuddy!” Anderson snapped.

“I thought you’d come to your senses now he’s _experimented_ on you,” Donovan shouted, “but you’re just as stupid as you were the day we met! I _told_ you some day he’d be hovering over a body, I just didn’t realize it would be ours and we’d be Frankenstein monsters!”

“Actually, Frankenstein was the name of the scientist, his creation was only ever called ‘the monster’ or ‘the creation’, and he was actually quite intelligent and driven to…” Sarah piped up, only to receive a whithering stare from the group, “And to answer John’s question, the other cecaelians are out hunting. They require more food than the cephaelians and need to surface to eat it. Not to mention the high sex drives.”

“You haven’t got those? Or the missing ‘beaks’ or whatever?” John asked curiously.

“No and no,” Anderson replied, “You keep talking about your boyfriend and I’ll introduce you to my beak. I can snap a human bone with it. Would you like a demonstration?”

“Cool it, Anderson,” Dimmock snapped, starting to flash a pattern a well, “Let’s hear him out.”

Anderson was apparently quite cowed, so John cleared his throat and tried again.

“Mycroft is trying to make us the villains in _both_ worlds. He wants us to be the catalyst to a peace agreement between humans and merpeople…”

John went on to explain it all in detail, the result of his explanation causing anger and relief in several parts.

“So he wants us to introduce ourselves? I can’t go out there like this!”

John turned to find two others had appeared, the missing cecaelians. One was a Latino man with spots across his coffee skin, and the other as pale as Sherlock with very long and slender tentacles. John felt a jolt in his nether regions that he belatedly realized was _attraction_ to the slender, pale male. Said male gave him a _very_ interested look and made a beckoning motion with his tentacle that John had to restrain himself from responding to.

_Think about Sherlock. Think about Sherlock. Shit! That’s not helping! Now I’m twice as turned on! Ahh, Mrs. Hudson and Molly going down on each other!_

That did it, and John nearly retched to boot.

“John,” He introduced, “John Watson.”

“Victor Trevor,” The pale man flirted with a very posh English accent.

“Antonio Banderas*,” The Latino man announcedand kissed John’s hand.

“I should probably mention I’ve got a mate,” John flushed.

“A mating mate,” Sarah teased from behind him.

“Yeah, one of those.”

“Wish _I_ had a mating mate,” Anderson muttered.

“Shut it, Anderson,” Dimmock growled.

John gave them a confused look, having assumed Anderson was still with Donovan, but then dismissed the situation as not his business.

“Look, if we work together we can get out of this alive. I’m not keen to go up there and show off my new creepy limbs, but if we do so then we could avoid being _slaughtered_. You know how humans are; they’ll hunt us down. If not to kill us because of the threat Mycroft is going to make us out to be, then to study us in labs.”

“They might still,” Sarah pointed out, “I’d have never given up this opportunity.”

“It’s a possibility, yes,” John conceded, “But we’re fish bait if we don’t take the _chance_. I trust Sherlock. I know you all have no reason to, and maybe good reason _not_ to, but he’s our only hope. He’s a fair shade sharper than anyone I know, you can admit that much.”

Nods all around, but everyone still looked miserable and uninterested in pursuing his advice.

“Okay,” John replied, harnessing his inner Captain, “Are you lot going to lay down here on the ocean floor, eating the shit of the bigger fish, or are you going to demand your rightful place in the food chain? We may be cephalopods, but we’re still _men_ … and women. We’re not some damned calamari dish, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to go down without making sushi** out of Mycroft Holmes first!”

There were a round of enthusiastic replies to that sentiment, so John went on to get them properly riled until they were all but racing him out of the tiny nest. John found out who knew where everything was, and they all followed Sarah’s lead back to Montrose’s beach.

XXX

**MERMAIDS REAL! MERMAN TELLS ALL!**

**STUNNING PICTURES OF MERMAN ON BEACH pg 10**

**SHERLOCK HOLMES, CONSULTING DETECTIVE AND ATLANTIAN**

**LOST CITY OF ATLANTIS RUINS FOUND! Pictures on pg 3**

**STAR CROSSED LOVERS? OR A FISH TALE?**

**KISSING FISH, THE TALE OF ROMEO AND SHERLOCK**

**CAN HUMANS TRUST FISH PEOPLE?**

**ENDANGERED SPECIES OR ALIENS?**

**ARE OCTO-MEN DANGEROUS? SCIENTISTS DEBATE**

**POLITICIANS MEET TO DISCUSS TRADE AGREEMENT AND DISARMAMENT- IN THAT ORDER**

**XXX**

John found Sherlock by his gorgeous scent the moment they reached Montrose. Sherlock was holed up in a sunken rowboat propped up on a rock and surrounded by more to make it a rather safe little hole to sleep in. He greeted John as though he hadn’t been gone at all.

“John, do you know Mrs. Hudson’s phone number? I seem to have deleted it fr…”

John tackled Sherlock, dragging him into the shelter and pinning him down. He had his mouth pressed to Sherlock’s entrance in a heartbeat, lathing it with his tongue until it opened for him. Sherlock was moaning deeply, the voice of sex going straight to John’s cotylus. The second Sherlock’s body began to gape and moisten for him he climbed Sherlock’s body and buried himself inside. Sherlock’s front was pressed to the sand below, two tentacles wrapped around his cock while John thrust into him with a third. The others held their position while John moaned and ran his hands over himself, his head thrown back in bliss as he writhed in pleasure. Sherlock bucked beneath him, chasing his own release and sucking on one of John’s tentacles- _when did that happen?-_ enthusiastically. Their heated coupling didn’t last long, with John coming first in a torrent of pleasurably bursting sperm sacks before turning Sherlock over with his nimble limbs and swallowing his cock down. A few grasping pulls and Sherlock was coming hard, his cries of pleasure muffled by the thick tentacle in his mouth.

John released Sherlock almost immediately, staring at him in shock and a bit of horror.

“I… I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock replied, swimming level with John’s face and pressing a quick kiss to his lips, “I see you brought friends.”

“Yes, gods, that was humiliating. Do you think they left?”

Sherlock snorted, “I doubt it.”

Sherlock slipped out of the shelter and swam up to them, “Anderson, Dimmock, Donovan, I see you managed to survive after your escape. Surprising, but…”

“Sherlock!” John scolded.

Sherlock sighed, “Apologies, it’s good to see you again. There, was that the proper response?”

“Yes,” John nodded, “What did you mean ‘escape’ though? I thought only four escaped. I assumed the others were released.”

“Well, you know what they say about people who assume,” Sherlock scoffed, “Those three played dead. They have the ability to alter their appearance and bodies, and they used it to perfectly mimic corpses. I saw through it, of course, but the guards monitoring me did not so when they reported to Mycroft that the subjects died no further inquiry was made. I simply had their ‘remains disposed of’, which meant they were left in a crab-infested area to be scavenged.”

“You let us go?” Dimmock asked, surprise on his face.

“I was rather impressed you thought of it, actually, but then cuttlefish are rather intelligent creatures so I suppose your alterations were an asset,” Sherlock stated, either unbothered by the offended looks he was drawing.

“Sherlock,” John sighed in frustration.

“You see, John,” Sherlock went on, “Cuttlefish actually _breed_ for intelligence. Donovan here, when she reaches her mating season, will mate with them both, but she’ll _choose_ which sperm sacks she keeps and uses to fertilize her eggs.”

“Already done, actually,” Donovan replied, “Dimmock’s the daddy-to-be. Our eggs are nice and safe, I saw to that before joining this mad expedition. Need a safe place for my babies to grow up.”

“Dimmock?” Sherlock asked in surprise, “I assumed your previous relationship with Anderson would make him the sperm donor. You’ve shown an alteration in behavior. How interesting. There isn’t significant size or coloration difference between the two, what made you choose Dimmock?”

“He worked harder for it,” Donovan replied with a shrug.

“That prick made himself look like a woman and snuck past me to mount her instead of facing me like a man!” Anderson snapped, “He cheated!”

Sherlock burst out laughing, and he wasn’t alone. Dimmock demonstrated his ability by making himself look _exactly_ like Donovan. The copies then kissed to the eager wolf whistles of the onlookers while an angry Anderson fumed on the sidelines. Sherlock looked fit to explode with excitement, but not of the lustful kind.

“This is _brilliant_ , none of the other cuttlefish showed this level of instinct integration! Dimmock portrayed the intelligence aspect that smaller cuttlefish use in order to sneak-breed with females behind larger males backs! In most cases, the female will then chose the smaller males sperm sacks rather than the larger males, presumably because it showed intelligence. Anderson, why didn’t _you_ try that tactic?”

“Because I’m a _real_ man!” Anderson snapped.

Sherlock snorted, “Real men get to be sires or bearers, you got to guard a nest full of your rivals eggs all because you wouldn’t sacrifice your illusion of masculinity to get a second shot in with Donovan. If you’d tried the same tactic she likely would have chosen you, especially since it would have gotten her two contributions of sperm. Instead she discarded your sacks as effectively as she did you. Bravo, Donovan, I knew there was _something_ redeemable about you. Now then, shall we go ashore?”

 

 

This chapter is dedicated to roserapier, for the cuttlefish inspiration and the hilarious convo between Anderson & Sherlock about mating ;). If you get a chance to watch a video about cuttlefish mating, it’s very pretty.

*Antonio Banderas: Why? Because I’ve been watching too much Shrek. He’s octo-puss… in _booooots_.

**credit to Aiwiel for ‘totally imagining Mycroft-sushi right now’ and giving me a blessing to use that loverly line. Thanks, dear!

 

[CHAPTER 18](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/90554.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 18

John didn’t like traversing sand with his tentacles. The second he reached dry sand he developed an instant terror of getting sand stuck in between all his parts and growing lumpy pearls until he couldn’t sleep like the princess from the story book.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sherlock scowled, deducing John’s discomfort accurately; “There are showers up the way, so you can wash off.”

“Says you. You’ll grow _legs_ eventually, I’m stuck like this.”

“You look lovely like that, now come _on_ already. At least you aren’t part cuttlefish. They can’t manage coming ashore at all.”

John looked back at the cephaelians who were treading water with their ruffled fins, making them appear to be adults with floaties around their waists. John waved to them and they waved back, but then ducked under water and swam away. They were going back to Donovan’s nest now that they knew going ashore wasn’t on for them. They’d try to communicate with the merpeople while down there to reach an alliance with them, but Sherlock had warned them away from his own pod since they and the surrounding pods were aligned with Mycroft and Moriarty.

Victor tried to slip his hand into John’s for the second time since they’d come ashore and Sherlock slapped it as if he were a wayward toddler.

“Find your own Blogger!” Sherlock snapped.

Victor scowled but didn’t make a fuss beyond that. Antonio was walking with his arm around Sarah’s waist, but they knew full well that Victor was intimate with her as well; he just got sloppy seconds since Sarah was only really interested in Antonio. Sherlock accepted a sarong from Mrs. Hudson, who met them up on the boardwalk. She also had fresh shirts for all of the rest of them, so they slipped into stalls to shower off and change. Once they were presentable she hugged John tightly and kissed his cheek.

“Shame on you for not calling me all these years, John Watson!” She scolded, “Sherlock I can understand, he’s funny in the head, but _you_ know better.”

“I’m very sorry,” John replied sincerely, hugging her again just to feel her close. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed her during his single-minded pursuit of Mycroft’s aims, which he now realized were quite nefarious.

Mrs. Hudson wiped a tear aside and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. She didn’t even seem to see the tentacles. John walked towards the barricade the police had set up with his fellow cecaelians and Sherlock in tow. Sherlock’s now dry waist sporting the purple sarong, which he managed to _still_ look manly in, damn him. Apparently this was how he had been appearing to people on shore, either in merman form with water nearby to keep him that way, or with a purple wrap around his waist so he could transform painlessly.

John and the other cecaelians eyed the people on the shore cautiously, but they were all excited to see them and launched into relentless questions. They were led over to a pavilion since Sherlock- and quite possibly the cecaelians- were sensitive to too much sunshine. They stood in a ring of reporters and cameramen, trying not to shrink in on themselves. Sarah was pressed so tightly to Antonio that someone asked if they were Siamese twins. Sherlock put a limit on their questions but mentioned that he’d pick one to do a private interview later.

“Which of you is John Watson?”

“That would be me,” John replied, squaring his shoulders and reminding himself he’d invaded Afghanistan, so the shores of Scotland shouldn’t be half as terrifying.

“Is it true you disguised yourself as a human so you and your merman lover could be together outside of the prejudice you endured in the ocean?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” John nodded, aware of Sherlock’s cover story. Apparently his kind could [disguise](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmDTtkZlMwM) themselves even better than chameleons, but it was something only Sarah had mastered so far.

“Which character do you relate to in Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’?”

“Ahhh, Mercutio?”

That rendered them silent for a moment.

“The mad one?” Someone asked.

“You try living with _him_ ,” John indicated Sherlock, “And not go a bit mad.”

Sherlock smirked, slipping his arm around John’s shoulders while the reporters laughed. They’d apparently had enough doses of Sherlock’s sharp tongue to agree with him. John allowed two tentacles to wrap protectively around his pale lover. They had specified that John was to touch Sherlock with them and allow others to touch them if anyone were brave enough. They wanted to show how harmless he was. Finally Sherlock called a halt and Mrs. Hudson passed them bottles of water, which they downed gratefully. The cameramen were still filming and snapping photos, but the questions were being ignored now. Then Sherlock chose a reporter, seemingly at random, and told her to follow them to their vehicle. Then he pointed at it and silence descended around them. John slapped his hand to his forehead and gave it a shake.

“I swear to gods, Sherlock…”

“What did I get wrong this time?” Sherlock frowned.

“An unmarked van?”

“It will hold all of us,” Sherlock reassured, “I measured the inside myself.”

“Gods, have you never seen a _single_ horror movie? No, scratch that, I _know_ I watched some with you. Did you delete them?”

“I ignored them, they were ridiculous, inaccurate, and _boring_ ,” Sherlock replied with a sneer.

“It’s fine,” The reporter stated, stepping forward and putting on a brave face, “Someone has to show you… people… trust. I’m willing to do that, to set an example and show you that not all humans are cruel or prejudiced.”

She raised her head high and led the way to the van.

_Give that woman a BAFTA,_ John thought as they followed her proud figure to the van.

An officer stopped them once he realized that John was planning on driving, but he presented the wallet Sherlock had found for him and produced a driver’s license and a military ID.

“It’s all legit, I’ve lived amongst humans my entire life,” John smiled warmly, and the cop hesitantly let him go when the reporters started grumbling.

Once inside the van, John took a moment to figure out how to drive with tentacles, buckled in, watched the awkward buckling of his compatriots, and then smiled over his shoulder at the reporter.

“That was a brilliant bit of acting,” John grinned, “Are you a professional?”

“A professional what?” She asked in confusion, “I’m a reporter for the Daily. Kitty Riley.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was smirking, “You didn’t pay her to say all that?”

“John, the best responses aren’t acting,” Sherlock replied, “Ms. Riley here is a reporter, just as I promised. We’re going to give her our life story.”

“Right then,” John replied, and steered out into traffic. Unspoken was his request that Sherlock tell him what his life story was _first,_ but judging by the man’s grin he’d heard it loud and clear and had no intention of complying.

 

This video is amazing. I was like O.O when I saw it. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmDTtkZlMwM>

Cuttlefish can do it, too, and they’re able to change their shape a bit as well, and sorta glow or something. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__XA6B41SQQ>

[CHAPTER 19](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/90842.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 19

**THEY COME IN PEACE  
A Look into the Brave New World of Merpeople, Cecaelians, and Cephaelians**

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hesitant to get into the unmarked white van that met me at Montrose Beach in Scotland, however the jokes by one John Watson (42, Cecaelian) helped relieve a bit of my trepidation. It was interesting to see him driving with his ‘arms’, which I mistakenly called tentacles only to be corrected by Sherlock Holmes (37, Merman, Consulting Detective and Chemist).

“They’re not technically tentacles, though his Cephaelian cousins _do_ have two tentacles they can shoot out to grab prey. Tentacles are more club-like with the suckers just at the ends, usually used for catching prey and defense, while arms can perform more delicate…”

“Sherlock,” Watson interrupts, “[expletive deleted] sake just let them call them tentacles. What’s so important about the difference anyway? _I_ call them tentacles.”

 

“The _difference_ , my dear doctor, is prejudice. If we’re going to introduce an entirely new species of intelligent beings to the world- technically, three new species’- we need to make sure the facts are known. This must be handled with scientific accuracy. If you want to call them tentacles _fine_ , but I imagine it’s tantamount to those with African descent using the term [expletive deleted] while Caucasians are not welcome to utilize it.”

There is a moment of rather awkward silence, which I will soon learn often follow such rapidly spoken speeches by Mr. Holmes, but then John speaks up with his (as I will also find) usual glib response.

“Well, [expletive deleted], now I feel bad using it,” He [Watson] replies.

Trevor laughs, Holmes smirks, and the tension is relieved while I do my best to apologize without reinstating it. Holmes ignores me, but I’ll soon find out that this is typical behavior for him as well.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Watson explains, “Social situations aren’t his area.”

“John usually handles any human interactions for me, unless accuracy is needed in which I am forced to speak up,” Holmes adds.

“Forced to?” Watson laughs, “I’ve never met a man who loves to hear himself speak more than you do. Show off.”

“I don’t deny it,” Holmes replies, his face completely stoney.

“ _Accuracy_ , he says,” Watson continues, “The man is a walking encyclopedia. He’s the most brilliant person- in either world- I’ve ever met. Talk about intelligent? He puts Einstein to shame.”

“Einstein flunked math,” Holmes replies.

“See what I mean?” Watson grins. I’m quickly finding Watson to be a welcome contrast to the stark Mr. Holmes, “Not all merpeople are like Sherlock, here. He’s exceptional all around. Most of them are like you and me. Just people, that’s all. Right Sherlock?”

“If you mean stupid and pedantic, then yes.”

“ _Sherlock,_ ” Watson replies in a warning voice, to which Holmes sighs as though _he_ is the one who is long-suffering.

“Most of my kind are ordinary and harmless, there,” Holmes replies snarkily, “Stick that in your dictophone and put it on repeat.”

I push down my smile. Their banter is obviously full of a great deal of warmth and comfort, something that humanizes the otherwise machine like visage of Mr. Holmes. It is ironic that the only other one with legs in the vehicle beside myself is the one I relate to the least, but Mr. Watson is both charismatic and amusing. Had I met him in a bar I’d be happy to have him by me a drink, and I hope that someday that thought won’t be followed up with ‘if he had legs’. I can only hope to expand my mind enough to put such racist thoughts behind me.

We reach a flat on Baker Street, the famed one from Mr. Holmes adventures, and climb the stairs to the second floor. There all four Cecaelians gratefully collapse into chairs.

“I’d forgotten how exhausting it was to walk around like this!” Sawyer announces, “I’m so out of practice! My tenta- _arms_ , feel like their made of real rubber instead of the fleshy sort.”

“It would probably be easier if we didn’t try to stay at our ‘normal’ height,” Banderas intones, “If we just let ourselves sink lower it would be less strain.”

“Go about on our bellies?” Trevor replies in disgust, “Not likely. We’re here to get acknowledged as equals with the surface dwellers, not show them what sort of bottom feeders we can be.”

“What difference,” Banderas starts to argue, but Watson cuts him off.

“I’m short either way,” Watson laughs, “Trust me, it makes a difference. People don’t take you seriously when you’re short. Drop yourself down to three feet and you’ll see a _huge_ difference in the way people treat you. We’ll just have to work our muscles back up. It’s like astronauts, right Sherlock?”

“An accurate comparison,” Holmes agrees, “but let’s get on topic. Kitty?”

I am offered a chair with a rather suave gesture from Holmes and Watson rushes to pull it out for me. No mistaking the dynamic there, Holmes is clearly a power amongst (mer)men, if not a leader, while Watson can easily pull off both roles.

“Well, since the subject of terms has come up, why don’t we start there?” I ask, “What is insulting and what is appropriate?”

I’m given a surprisingly short list by Holmes. Under offensive are such terms as: Squid, fish, octo-man/woman, and bottomfeeder/dweller. Terms considered accurate are cephalopod (for Cecaelian and Cephaelian only) mermen/maid/people, Atlantian (for mermen/maids/people only).

“We don’t use merwomen, it just isn’t done; too much of a mouthful I suppose. We do use such terms as ‘everyfish’ instead of ‘everybody’, but that is only when referring to the masses of the entire ocean,” Holmes explains, “Such as ‘pollution affects everyfish’, where as I would otherwise say ‘it is time for everyone to migrate’ when referring only to my own kind. Also, we don’t always use ‘mer’ at all: only when drawing a distinction or speaking politely. I would refer to John as a man, and he would do the same to me unless we were in mixed company- as now- or at a dinner party. Not that a dinner party would ever happen with Cecaelians in attendance.”

“I take it cephalopods and Atlantians don’t get on?” I query.

“No, they don’t,” Holmes frowns, “They’re considered the lesser species, which is a problem for my own kind to deal with. We also need to overcome some prejudices. However, I was referring to the eating practices of cecaelians, which require they at least surface and preferably be on dry land. This has made their lives more difficult and inspired me to make this bold move.”

“And what,” I ask hesitantly, “Do your kind think of ours?”

Holmes opens his mouth to answer, but Watson cuts him off, “Not kindly, I’m afraid. Between pollution and overfishing of areas it’s become difficult for marine life to remain healthy.”

“Something I hope will be remedied for all our sakes,” I reply carefully, “I think the big question, the one most readers are really looking for, is this: Will we be forced away from the ocean?”

“How do you mean?” Watson asks, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Will we be forced to stop fishing, and lose a primary food source for many parts of our world? Will we be denied the right to cross the ocean by boat, or charged a fee to do so?”

“Oh, well, I suppose that’s up to the politicians,” Watson replied cagily.

“No,” Holmes states decisively, “My kind have no need for tariffs and no reason to keep you from utilizing the abundance of the ocean. What we need is a working agreement: overfishing _must_ stop. There are plenty of fish in the sea, as John here has used that term before, but they can’t all be scooped out of one area in excess. Dumping in the ocean is the worst offense. How would you like it if I dropped a barrel of radioactive material or a bin of trash in your sitting room?”

“I’d be a bit peeved,” I admit with a smile.

“Exactly,” Holmes acknowledges.

“What about us?” Trevor interrupts, “You’re going on about mermaid concerns, but what about our kind?”

“Your kind are going to be lumped in with _our_ kind,” Holmes informs him, “That is how discrimination works. It won’t be merpeople, cephalokind, and land dwellers anymore: it will be seapeople and landpeople. We’re going to _have_ to unite in order to maintain peace. Your kind are not migratory, mine are. You will be more negatively affected than we will by certain aspects, while others will affect my kind more than yours. You, for instance, can walk easily onto shore, disguised as a person with two legs, and maintain a life amongst the world. My kind transforms when water hits us. You can bet there are going to be a rash of idiots running around with water pistols for a few years now.”

Holmes looks disgusted at the prospect and Watson takes his hand supportively. I feel the time has come to get to the more personal aspect of this world.

“You all have lived amongst us unseen. Can you tell me about it? What sort of lives have you lived? How? Why did you leave the ocean?”

_continued on page 10_ …

[CHAPTER 20](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/91002.html)


	20. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 20

John stared at the toilet as though it were Mount Everest. It with eight limbs and no idea where his asshole was it might as well have been. Over the days that he’d been a cecaelian he had, of course, defecated, but in the water it was a simple procedure. Relax your internal muscles and swim. Done. Now he had to negotiate a seat that wasn’t meant for his kind and he was quite suddenly appreciative of the trials of the disabled; especially when he took a look at how close the toilet was to the tub and sink it was wedged between.

_How the hell am I going to figure this out?_

John started by grabbing the hand mirror Sherlock used to put his disguise makeup on and stretched out on the edge of the tub to fan out his tentacles ( _fuck you, Sherlock, tentacles are less confusing than arms)._ He looked below and spent a moment gazing in horror at his lower mouth. It looked a bit like a dilated cervix, and he could see it gaping and swallowing when he focused on moving it. As a man, he’d fuck it in an instant- it looked tight, wet, and soft, all the prerequisites for a good time- but he was shocked that his prissy lover had put his mouth or dick anywhere near it.

John disregarded that and moved around to look for his anus instead. He found a slit at his back end, between two tentacles and thankfully fairly far from his ‘mouth’. He easily identified it as the place pressure was coming from and sat down on the look to relieve said pressure. As a cecaelian he no longer urinated, everything came out of one area, but he wasn’t trying to think of that now that he had located his anus. He grabbed a magazine and winced. Porn. Back when he was living here without Sherlock he’d been looking at porn rags in order to get his dose of sexy parts. He tossed it in the bin; he had Sherlock back now, he didn’t need that rubbish. The next magazine was a medical one and he lost himself in the article for a bit until he recalled there were people in their sitting room waiting on him. He cleaned up and headed back out to where Sarah was demonstrating her ability to look like a human woman. John gaped at the sight of her in a pencil skirt and high heels with two legs. She’d even manipulated the plain white vest she’d been wearing into a flattering blouse.

“Will it show up in photos?” Riley asked.

Sarah glanced at Sherlock who nodded subtly.

“Yes,” Sarah blushed.

Riley snapped a few photos, looking in amazement at the results, “Unbelievable!”

“I think that’s it for today,” Sherlock stated, “We’re all very tired and we still have to meet with some medical examiners and scientists later.”

“I’d hoped to get your personal stories…” Riley protested, but Sherlock cut her off.

“You’ll get another chance, Kitty. John, you’ll make an appointment with Ms. Riley? Oh, and let her know about St. Bart’s.”

“Ah, sure,” John replied, an fetched his mobile from the table beside him, “When is good for you?”

They set up an interview while Sherlock spoke quietly with Antonio, Sarah, and Victor. John kept Kitty busy, assuming that Sherlock wanted a distraction for the moment. It proved accurate as he turned and nodded to John eventually.

“Well, Ms. Riley, it’s been a pleasure,” John stated, sticking out his hand, “I suppose I’ll see you at the hospital at five, but I’m not sure if they’ll let you in during the exam or not.”

XXXXXXXXX

** THEY COME IN PEACE, _con’t_ **

Sadly, my interview was cut short at that moment when Sherlock announced that they had a prior engagement. However, it turned out I was in for a bigger treat as John Watson explained to me that they’d be going to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital that evening for a medical exam by several of the world’s leading scientists, marine biologists, and the local staff’s doctors. I was invited to join them as well as return for more personal interviews at a future date. Follow me on _twitter @KRileyReporting_ for updates or like my Facebook page.

Once I set up the next interview something rather unsettling happened. Dr. Watson put his hand out to shake mine, a perfectly natural gesture, and I froze. I admit it and am thoroughly ashamed of myself, but despite having taken tea with them and spoken with them for well over an hour I simply couldn’t touch his hand. There were several awkward seconds and then he withdrew it before I could steel myself, and his eyes told me all I needed to know. Before I quite knew what was happening Holmes had me by the arm and was propelling me out the door. I dug in my heels and apologized profusely and Watson came to my rescue once again by calling to Holmes to give me another chance. 

I squirmed out of Holmes’ substantial grip, spun about, and grasped Watson’s hand firmly in my own. I apologized again and told him I truly was honored to have made his acquaintance. I could see he was still angry, but he was polite and smiled and told me he’d talk to me again soon. I left with high hopes and no little amount of regret only to be stopped on the bottom landing. Holmes had gone on ahead of me and was waiting at the door.

“You will not look at him like that again, do we understand each other? He is a better man than most; he doesn’t deserve your ill treatment.”

“It was a mistake,” I assured him, “It won’t happen again.”

He opened the door for me, glancing up to see Watson at the top landing giving him a cautioning look, but it didn’t stop him from leaning forward and whispering one final sentence in my ear.

“You. Repel. Me.”

I found myself on the stoop of 221B Baker Street, shaking and feeling utterly disgusted with myself. I have prided myself on looking at the facts and only the facts when I report my stories, so my lapse was particularly out of character for me. I can only hope that my publishing this true and honest account will redeem me in their eyes. I present myself as an example to my readers: they have done nothing to earn our fear and loathing. They deserve our respect and understanding, and I for one will school myself to present a better image of our race in the future.

_ See Below for Pictures _

XXXXXXXX

Mycroft huddled in a corner of the pool, feeling exposed and afraid. He had his child held tightly in his arms, but she was squirming miserably. She wanted to swim around and play in the water, but he was afraid to let her out of his grasp. It had been like this for days and her frequent cries of misery had kept him from sleeping even when exhaustion weighed in. When she slept he watched her with his eyes forced open by strength of will. When she was awake he would escort her in laps of the pool, but today he was too afraid and exhausted to move. Never had he felt such regret for anything in his life.

_What happened to me? I was a power to be reckoned with. I was leading several pods and respected in even more. I was a power on dry land; I practically WAS the British government. I had a gorgeous mate who didn’t care if I dragged him to the ocean or kept him sated on dry land, willing to fill me up with merbabies whenever I desired. How was I brought so low?_

Around the pool prowled a pride of lions, kept just a bit hungry and meant to keep him from escaping. It was ironic how their social structure mimicked that of merpeople: the powerful- but lazy- men fighting, raising their young, and guarding the homes while the women searched out food. The exception to that was, of course, same sex couples which decided who played which role amongst themselves. Mycroft had happily taken the role of ‘male’ despite having born the child himself, but he’d failed in all aspects when he’d killed his mate in order to- he thought- secure a more powerful one. Merpeople mated for life, but when a mate died they more often took another. What a fool he had been to think he could force his body to comply with the plans in his mind. Moriarty had _not_ been amused.

_Mycroft walked into their joint bedroom, filled with opulent silks and Egyptian cotton, and climbed into the bed with a smirk on his face. He was going to enjoy this smaller man. It had been so long since he had last bottomed, but Jim had been clear in that he_ never _let a man take him. So Mycroft would willingly submit to this man. Or so he thought._

_“Oh, not here,” Moriarty smirked, “I want to see that pretty orange tail of yours.”_

_They went into the bathroom where a tub fit for a king was filled with salty water for Mycroft’s comfort. He had been flattered at the efforts, but unimpressed by the size of it. Truly it was regal, but for a man used to the entire ocean to swim in it had seemed pathetically small. He had flattered it anyway, stripped down, and climbed in with an inviting swish of his tale. Moriarty had looked at him with such desire that Mycroft had reassured his broken heart that this was worth the pains he had taken._

_An hour later Mycroft lay trembling and horrified, aching in ways he had never felt before while Moriarty smirked and smoked a fag._

_“You’re rather tight,” Moriarty laughed, “A much nicer fuck than I thought you’d be, ugly as you are.”_

_Mycroft shrank in on himself, shame and disgust making him sick to his stomach. He hadn’t been aroused at all, not even for a moment, the entire time Moriarty had taken him. He frantically wanted to leave and shower, but the looks Moriarty kept throwing him- reminiscent of a_[ _viperfish_](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tO1WycCEPmY/UMEPd88VQfI/AAAAAAAAARY/TS3n_Ve6CRM/s640/viperfish.gif) _\- pinned him to the bed. He hadn’t been overly violent with Mycroft, certainly his dalliances with Gregory had been far more exerting, but he had been_ terrifying _nonetheless. Mycroft now knew he lay beside something far more dangerous than the intelligent and aggressive killer whale. What happened next was something out of a nightmare as Moriarty studied Mycroft’s purposely-bland expression and saw right through it._

_“Oh no, my_ dear _,” He had stated with voracious intent, “You won’t be leaving. You and that precious daughter of yours will be staying_ right here. _”_

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered to his cranky child, “I’m so sorry, Angel. I’ll get you out of this.”

The pool was filled with salt water, much to Mycroft’s relief, but it had to be maintained because of that alteration. The filtration system was breaking down and the water was becoming foul. Several men were coming to work on it that day, all of them Moriarty’s people, and Mycroft was bent on escaping with Angel. He knew they were very far from the ocean, and that his legs would take time to appear, so he had to time this all _exactly right_.

The plane that had been set to crash into the ocean, right in the middle of a reef that his people used for courtship, would be taking off in a matter of hours. He had to stop it. If it crashed into the reef his people would be forced to search out new areas and that would disrupt the balance of the entire area. It would route out the cecaelians, who were breeding fast by now, and force them all to fight for space. That was something that hadn’t happened in centuries. Merpeople simply shared their resources with each other and other pods, united in their hatred of the humans who were slowly destroying the areas fit for habitation. They would not, however, be so comfortable with another intelligent race stepping in and requiring space themselves. He had to stop this insane scheme from destroying everything he and his forebears had built. His people would likely never forgive him, but he _had_ to make a better life for Angel. His brother’s way was the right one- not the path of conquering, but one of assimilation.

Finally the time came. The men were gathered around the filter, talking about modifications and specifications, and Mycroft slipped out of the water. With the lions locked away he only had the strongest and smartest predators in the world to deal with- humans. Mycroft wished he were a boxom woman at that moment; it would have made this all a great deal simpler. Instead, he would have to rely on other wiles.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Mycroft spoke up, slipping up onto the edge of the pool with Angel tucked into the crook of his arm, “Do any of you happen to have the time?”

They looked up at him, eyes widening with curiosity, but not surprise. Sherlock’s plan had worked, then; he was a novelty but not a shock.

“Ahhh,” One of them raised an arm and glanced at his wristwatch, “It’s 10:35 in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. Angel started squirming and Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, “You don’t mind if she stretches her legs, do you? She so rarely gets to use them.”

“Ah, I guess not,” The same fellow replied with a shrug.

Mycroft lowered Angel to the floor in a dry spot and blew on her tail, stroking along it to shed the water droplets. She giggled and squirmed and the workers were soon grinning at her antics, only half paying attention to the job they were doing. When his redheaded child rolled over with a pair of legs they gawked in amazement. He helped her balance on her knees, scooting further up onto the edge himself in order to help her. She had no problem holding herself up on her hands, but was unable to balance quite yet on her knees. She whined at his prodding, but then got curious about the work the men were doing and dragged herself over, flopping on the ground to move like an inchworm closer to the men.

Mycroft feigned concern and dragged himself over to her, calling her name and telling her not to go near the hole in where the pump was located. One of the men hesitantly scooped her up and brought her howling back to Mycroft.

“ _Thank_ you,” Mycroft replied sincerely, “She can be quite a handful.”

“It must be tough not being able to chase after her. I’ve got a toddler at home.”

Mycroft smiled happily, he’d hoped one of them had kids. This would make things simpler. “She is quite a handful, but a wonderful child. She rarely cries.”

They spoke for a moment about the trials and tribulations of raising children, Mycroft amazing him with how simple it was to raise a merbaby.

“So they just swim about?”

“Yes, they’re born _very_ attached to their bearers- which would be me- so they don’t go far. They can swim within a day or two of being born.”

“No diapers or anything! Man, you guys have it made!”

Mycroft chuckled, “I suppose, but you don’t have sharks and other predators walking about your sitting rooms. The men watch the children for a reason, we have more muscles mass so we can hurl a harpoon farther. It’s a rather tricky situation sometimes, keeping mobile babies safe from predators who are _just_ as mobile. When we swim into waters where larger octopi live they are especially dangerous. If their beak can fit through a crevice, then so can the rest of them and they’ll happily eat a merbaby.”

The man’s eyes widened, “You mean those octopus people?”

“Oh, no!” Mycroft laughed, “They haven’t got beaks, and the bones in their upper halves keep them from sneaking about like _real_ octopi.”

The conversation turned onto the politics at hand, and Mycroft asked for updates since he’d been out of the loop for a bit. The other men, disgusted by talk of diapers and pink toys, had gone back to repairing the pump and were avoiding looking their way. This was perfect for Mycroft, who was slowly drying off while the men around him were distracted; even the armed guards’ eyes had glazed over. Eventually, the repair man, who had been fetching Angel when she wandered too far and dangling his keys in front of her to her amusement, noticed that he’d switched over to legs. He gave Mycroft a hesitant look and then sighed and shook his head.

“We were told to keep you with a tail, mate. Sorry, but you’ll have to get back in the water Mr. Holmes.”

“I had hoped to walk around for a bit…”

“I’m sorry- I really am- but you can’t,” The man gestured to the guards and they shook themselves alert and walked over to push Mycroft back into the water.

Mycroft remained on the tile, pretending himself to be still unable to stand, and made pleading protests. When the guards got close enough he launched to his feet, tossed one in the pool and broke the other’s neck with a sharp kick to the bottom of his chin. The repair men backed off and one of them headed for the doors to alert more guards. Mycroft snatched up Angel and bolted for the doors ahead of them, knocking one aside with his shoulder.

Higgins, the fellow he’d been chatting with who had a toddler, looked hesitant to make a move against him, and instead settled for helping the guard out of the pool. Mycroft bolted into the hallway and headed across the large entrance area of Moriarty’s private home. He had his hand on the door when someone punched him in the back. It wasn’t until he was crumpled on the floor- with pain and blood blossoming out of him- that he realized it had been a bullet and not a fist. Mycroft rolled onto his back to check on Angel, his mind focused solely on his screaming child. Her tearful eyes met his, but she seemed unharmed besides being splattered with blood. Moriarty was chuckling from the balcony above them, a gun in his hand.

“I had _soooo_ hoped to use you against that irritating brother of yours, but you’ve proven yourself to be too much trouble. I’m sure your little Angel, however, will be far more _compliant_.”

Mycroft cowered in fear, pressing himself against the door and trying in vain to reach it as his vision became foggy. A ratchet came out of seemingly nowhere and struck Moriarty on the back of the head. The small Irishman hit the ground in a heap and Mycroft blinked up at Higgins in a daze.

“So, merbabies are easy to raise, huh?” Higgins asked, his look pitying, “Can they be raised in human form?”

Mycroft nodded, his grip on Angel loosening. His last thought as Higgins lifted Angel into his arms was that at least now she would have a sibling to play with.

[CHAPTER 21](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/91179.html)


	21. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 21

Despite how hurt he’d been by her display of disgust and distrust, John made sure that Sherlock behaved himself when they saw Kitty next. In fact, he made a point of being polite and friendly to her. However, he was soon _very_ distracted by the tests being performed; not only because he was the subject of them, but because he was so very curious about them. Luckily, Molly was in charge of running the actual tests at Sherlock’s request and no one else was in the room with them, so when John was enthusiastically looking over the results it wasn’t a shock as to why he didn’t know a thing about his own anatomy.

“Look at that,” John muttered, pointing to the x-rays, “No hip bones. I mean, the muscle is thick there so I wasn’t certain that I hadn’t any until just now.”

“You’re virtually solid muscle,” Sherlock nodded, peering at them as well, “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

John stepped out of the developing room and ended up gaping in shock. Antonio and Victor had Sarah pinned to the wall and were fucking her enthusiastically. Antonio was leaning against the wall with one hand, suave and looking more as if he were chatting her up. Victor’s face was pressed to her breasts and he was nuzzling her eagerly. John cocked his head to the side in wonder at the site of Sarah taking both cotylus at once. Her head was thrown back, her face flushed, her mouth open as she gasped in pleasure. John groaned as pleasure shot up his own cotylus and turned his head to find Sherlock stroking it with a heated look on his face.

“You _do_ need regular stimulation, dearest.”

“Gods,” John moaned, and tugged Sherlock back into the development room. Molly stared at them in shock as John pinned his lover to the wall; she left while stammering in embarrassment and John heard her give a little shriek at the sight that awaited her in the next room. John was buried in Sherlock’s perfect heat in a few minutes, thrusting into him eagerly over and again while Sherlock pressed fingers into his ‘mouth’ and John moaned as he suckled on his digits.

“Want your cock,” John whimpered as pleasure built fast, “Want your come.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, and John enveloped him in his tentacles, gripping him tightly and wrapping his mouth around Sherlock’s emerging cock.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the amazing feel of being cocooned in John’s tentacles. The man was able to be both inside and around him in ways that left Sherlock feeling a peculiar combination of safe and vulnerable. Sherlock went limp and let himself be overwhelmed by the emotions and physical stimulation that now came with making love to one John Watson. Before had been good- great really- but now was awe-inspiring. He spent every second with John in a state of partial distraction, waiting for his body to recover enough to give himself to the cecaelian again. He had known addiction once in his youth and he recognized the signs now, yet there was no chemical agent involved to make him _need_ John the way he did. He could only assume it was the curious relaxing sensation being bound in his arms created that Sherlock was obsessed with. Certainly he had loved it when pre-transformation John had pinned him down and taken him, but _this!_ This was something beyond mere passion. The merman savored everything from the smooth upper skin to the suckling lower skin as Sherlock was stroked and squeezed. The scent of John’s sweat as he became aroused changed and then changed again right before he was about to climax. It was beautiful and Sherlock found himself lapping at his neck to savor the taste of him as well as the musky aroma.

John closed his eyes and let himself simply enjoy the feel and taste of Sherlock’s body. The musk of his groin area was a particular favorite of John’s; he’d always loved oral sex with women for this reason and now found himself enamored of Sherlock’s smell and taste. This was especially easy to enjoy since he could taste- and almost smell- Sherlock with his lower mouth even as he kissed those perfect cupid bow lips with his upper one. Sherlock’s body was attractive to him in all ways now; he found himself memorizing every slim line, subtle curve, and flat plain. Not only did he have two ways to smell and taste, but he had _ten_ ways to touch and pleasure. Sherlock’s glazed eyes let him know how well he was doing and he gloried in making the normally mouthy man whimper and gasp in awe.

The door flew open and Molly let out a little shriek before holding a file over her face.

“Um… I’m sorry… I’m _really_ sorry, but… you _have_ to come quick… No! No! I didn’t mean it like that! Oh, dear…”

John and Sherlock detached themselves from each other while Molly babbled. John could feel his blood pounding through his veins. He wanted to _strangle_ Molly, but luckily Sherlock read him like a book and turned her around and shoved her out the door.

“Whatever it is, it will keep.”

“We’ll make this fast,” Sherlock stated, turning back to John, “I’m unlikely to come quickly after this morning, so just focus on you for now.”

John didn’t need convincing, he was gagging for it and the second Sherlock turned his back he dragged his lover against himself and began a quick series of thrusts that brought him over fast. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the rest of his tentacles, so he was startled to find Sherlock completely entangled in them and panting heatedly. One was wrapped tightly around his cock and had been stroking him off. John took a moment to decide, specifically taking in Sherlock’s unfocused eyes and gaping mouth, and then continued to ravage him. Sherlock’s back bowed and he came hard, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as his seed arched out in front of him and splattered on the wall.

John smiled, proud of himself as Sherlock sagged in his arms; they ended up in a tangle of tentacles on the floor, John with his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders as he nuzzled his damp curls. Sherlock took a moment to come to himself, his breath catching in his throat a moment, and then he struggled to sit up.

“Oh, dis _gusting_!” Sherlock groaned.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Your come balls are popping out of me.”

“C-come balls?!” John laughed.

“Well, they’re a lot less disgusting in the ocean,” Sherlock grumbled, standing up and grabbing a few handfuls of tissues to clean himself up with, “They just float away there. I can’t wait to go home!”

John curiously snatched up the tissues before Sherlock could discard them and studied them.

“Oh…” John suddenly felt awful about the idea of leaving them lying about, “This… I can’t…”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as John studied the curious little lumps. They looked like caviar and John had a sick feeling roiling in his stomach. _My babies._

“It’s fine, John. You’ll have an instinctive need to make me keep them. It’s a part of octopi mating practices. Just give them here for now,” Sherlock tucked them into the waist of his sarong and smiled warmly at John, “In time you will be able to breed me. Since I’m not cecaelian it will be a bit different from simply waiting for me to choose to use your sperm sacs over another males. We’ll have to develop a system, perhaps using a butt plug, and… that is… if you ever wish to.”

John looked up in surprise at the sudden nervous tone in Sherlock’s voice and took in his pained expression.

“I do, Sherlock,” John soothed, taking his hand, “I…”

A knocking on the door, rapid and frantic, brought their attention back to Molly’s earlier intrusion. Sherlock opened the door and tugged down the file she was holding over her face.

“What?!”

“There’s been an accident, well not an accident, a terrorism, an act of terrorism… someone’s crashed a plane into a mermaid city or something!”

Sherlock laughed, “They’re all at the bottom of the ocean, you can’t crash a _plane_ into one!”

John frowned, “Where?”

“A reef of [Lophelia pertusa](http://www.safmc.net/Portals/0/May-June-2005-067.jpg) _off the coast of Scotland,” Molly replied._

_ Sherlock’s face didn’t change. He didn’t gasp. He didn’t go pale. He did, however, stiffen his shoulders, and John knew him well enough to know what that meant. He grasped Sherlock’s hand and started forward, pulling him along. _

_ “Show us everything. Quickly.” _

_ Molly led them out to the hallway where people were gathered around a television in a waiting room. Staff and patients alike were watching with tears in their eyes. When Sherlock arrived they parted like the Red Sea and Sherlock stood a few feet away from the tele, staring up at it with tears running down his cheeks. _

_ John was mesmerized by the horror and beauty on the screen. Human ships were surrounding the crash site, fishing boats and pleasure crafts alike, and they were pulling unconscious and injured merpeople and humans out of the water and onto their crafts where helicopters were lowering stretchers to fly the most injured to local hospitals. They were all young mermen and maids, eyes wide with fear, many of them clinging to the remains of their mates.  _

_ Sherlock said merpeople mate for life _ _ , John thought to himself as he watched his normally stoic lover silently cry beside him, his face angry at how helpless he was to assist. _

_ John wrapped his arm and two tentacles tightly around Sherlock, holding him tightly, “They’re getting help. Those people are going to save as many of them as possible. You did that, you know? Bringing it out in the open like you did.” _

_ “It isn’t just  _ _ my _ _ kind and humans dying out there, John. That reef was 8000 years old, the coral that grew there endangered. The fish, crustaceans, everything that lived inside it will be homeless now. That entire area will take  _ _ thousands  _ _ of years to recover. My people… merpeople have lost something that comes as close to a shrine as my kind have.” _

_ The news reporter came on and started explaining that the jumbo jet had contained four hundred people, forty-six of them children. She then went on to say that the final death toll was unknown for both races, but was steadily climbing as chemicals burned on the surface of the water and people thrashed in agony in the shallows. She went on to laud the courage and unbiased actions of those pulling animals and merpeople out of the water. A group of professional divers were going down to rescue those pinned beneath the wreckage in possible air pockets. _

_ “We’re coming together, though,” John replied softly, “It’s not the way it should have happened, but it’s happening nonetheless.” _

_ Sherlock nodded and John swept his tears aside with a tentacle before pressing a kiss to his cheek.  _

_ [CHAPTER 22](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/91595.html) _

  



	22. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 22

_** TRAGEDY STRIKES – FAITH IN HUMANITY RESTORED? ** _

_ In the wake of the catastrophic terrorist strike on a merperson mating ground just off the coast of Scotland, we are left to recognize the horror that fear and hatred can take the form of- and bask in the relief of the many people who overcame it. Tuesday afternoon, right after my first interview with Sherlock Holmes and co. and before my second one, marked the day that evidence of the merpeople existence went beyond possible hoax and into the realms of reality. No longer questioning the authenticity, many people are lining up between two different groups: Prejudice and Acceptance.  _

On the side of prejudiced humans we find those afraid that their jobs, land, and resources will be taken by the revealed merpeople, cecaelians, and cephaelians. They tout their disgust of those living amongst us in secret, pointing out that they were clearly hiding _something_ besides their species. Of course, this is by no means a one-sided sentiment. Many merpeople are terrified of humans and have expressed outright hatred and disgust at previous overfishing and polluting of their environment. This is only exacerbated by Tuesday’s terrorist attack on what Mr. Holmes refers to as a ‘shrine’ amongst his people- the equivalent of bombing a mosque, temple, or church.

On the side of accepting humans we find everyone from mermaid fanatics to humanitarians. This group is preaching tolerance and offering financial assistance to those merpeople affected by the bombing. The merpeople have been rather straightforward in their response to this offered aid: they don’t need or want money. Apparently merpeople have no system of trade or commerce, according to spokesmerperson Sherlock Holmes.

“Our kind survives by working together. The women hunt and gather, the men guard the sleeping area and raise the children, occasionally fighting amongst each other for a better area to keep their nests in during migration. The latter usually only happens when a pod’s teenagers reach mating age. That’s when they would go to coral reefs such as the one that was destroyed and flirt with their prospective mates. Once they choose one, it’s the boys- now become men- who return to the caves we live in and start trying to oust older males so they can have a bigger cave to raise their young in. Once that gets situated it all settles down again and the focus once more becomes raising young and guarding the area from predators. Of course, there are exceptions to these roles in the case of same sex couples or those who are not cis-male or cis-female, but in general that’s how things run. We’re a very peaceful species for the most part- strong and excellent fighters, but peaceful.”

Little is known of the cecaelians, and cephaelians have yet to be seen. Mr. Holmes informs us that both species are on the brink of extinction.

“While they mate rapidly, they’ve never entered into a peaceful agreement with our kind. There hasn’t been outright war, but cecaelians and cephaelians aren’t social creatures so they don’t have territory to return to once we start migrating. This lack of area to live in, complicated by the destruction of our ocean’s eco system, has caused their race to dwindle to the brink of extinction. Those like myself who mourn the destruction of any species are hoping to correct this disaster before it is too late.”

What baffles this reporter is that several of the merpeople who allowed an interview from their hospital beds claimed not to know anything about the cecaelians or cephaelians at all, but they did express distress that any creature was in danger or extinction. Mr. Holmes’ explanation was that few knew of the other two species since they were adept at camouflage and not at all social.

“They can make themselves look like rocks, coral, humans, or merpeople. The only reason I’m aware of them is that I went and fell in love with one,” Mr. Holmes explains with a warm smile towards his cecaelian husband.

Dr. Watson, normally quiet and unless he’s scolding Mr. Holmes, smiles fondly and leans closer to him. Their limbs are nearly always tangled together; so much so that I have several times been concerned that Mr. Holmes would trip. However, there was never any concern. They both move together like a pair of dancers, liquid and flowing as their natural home.

_See pg 3 for pictures…_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock walked up the steps slowly. To the casual observer he was calm and collected, but John could smell the anxiety in his sweat. Mycroft had intentionally left his fingerprints everywhere on the whole ordeal, so the military had broken down his door the second the plane crashed… and found his body. Now Sherlock was being called in, partially to identify the body and partially to _unofficially_ aid in the investigation.

“It’s fine to be upset,” John whispered as they both stood looking down at the merman’s deceased body.

Sherlock ignored him and stepped over his brother’s corpse with barely a glance. It was odd how mermen reverted to their proper shape when deceased. Mycroft’s beautiful orange tail was on full display, but the color of his skin was muted just as dead humans were. Sherlock was practically running up the stairs and John was hot on his heals, darting to one side to go up the railing with his clever limbs when coppers got in his way. He found Sherlock standing in a nursery, the walls a subtle shade of pink while white prevailed almost everywhere else.

“She’s not here,” Sherlock whispered.

“Can you track her scent?”

“I’m a fish not a hound!” Sherlock shouted at him.

“Easy, Sher, easy,” John soothed, “We’ll find her.”

Sherlock turned on him, his eyes flashing in anger and John instinctively rushed him. They went down in a tangle, silent and focused on overwhelming the other. Only when John had Sherlock pinned did the man give way to his emotions and choke out a sob. John held steady, stroking his face gently as he comforted him while his lover cried in front of him for the second time.

“I… the fuck?” Gregson, the DI on the case with MI5’s permission, had walked into the room and was giving them a confused look.

“Give him a moment,” John spoke up, “He’s just lost his brother and his niece is missing.”

“Where the hell did your legs come from?” Gregson asked, “Is that the camouflage thing?”

John glanced down in surprise just in time to see his legs shift over to tentacles again, “Uh, yeah. About that moment?”

“Oh, right… sorry,” Gregson muttered and stepped out, waylaying someone else who had walked towards the door.

His odd moment of transformation had distracted Sherlock from his mourning as he gave John a curious look.

“What inspired that?”

“I was embarrassed about him walking in,” John admitted, pulling Sherlock up, “I was thinking of how it probably looked like we were having sex and how disgusted Molly had looked when she saw it.”

“Interesting, it took you wishing your legs were visible to have them appear, and fully clothed I might add.”

“I do sort of miss pants,” John sighed, “Thank goodness it’s summer. Come on. Lets find Angel.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was irritated as hell. As if he wasn’t dealing with enough disappointment in life, here was his mate driving him _mad_ about eggs. It wasn’t that John was _trying_ to nag him about them, in fact he hadn’t said a word despite the fact that his instincts must have been flustering him, but being an observational man meant that every time John glanced at his hip where the sperm sacs were tucked into a tissue he felt as if the man were screaming at him about it. If John found out that Sherlock had pulled a sleight of hand and the sacks were actually in the trash somewhere… well, Sherlock was regretting it already. In fact, he was feeling more than a bit anxious about them himself. He felt like he ought to go running back to St. Bart’s and get them _back_.

John glanced at his hip again and Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation.

“That’s _it!”_

“You know where Angel is?” John asked eagerly, but Sherlock was halfway out the door.

John, who had been maneuvering around all day, was too tired to follow him further than the landing and even then was dragging himself along the floor.

“Have you?!” He called.

“Stay here!” Sherlock called back, not wanting John to know where he was going and why.

“Will you be safe?” John shouted as Sherlock opened the landing door, but Sherlock ignored him. He sounded as though he were just trying to reassure himself that it was okay to stay behind anyway.

XXX

Miss Riley sat down in Sherlock’s chair, smiling sadly at John, and proceeded to deliver her condolences.

“I wasn’t exactly attached to him,” John replied, “Seeing as he was _very_ against my relationship with Sherlock. I did adore Angel, though, despite having only met her once. She was a _beautiful_ little girl, and Sherlock looked perfect carrying her around in his arms. I didn’t want kids before he jumped off that bridge, but now…”

“What _is_ the story behind that? You had to have known he was alright?” Riley asked.

“Well, I suspected he was, but he hadn’t told me what was going on before hand. I thought he was just trying to get Moriarty off his tail. I had no idea…” John paused, letting his pain show as Sherlock had instructed, “I had no idea he was leaving me.”

“Leaving you? You two had a falling out?”

“Of a sort. Sherlock wanted kids and, like I said a moment ago, I didn’t. I didn’t want the responsibility, not to mention we’ve no idea if it’s possible or what that child would emerge as. I was terrified of the idea and kept insisting he not get pregnant. When Moriarty threatened to expose us, Sherlock decided he didn’t want to risk my life on land _and_ go childless to boot. So he just went home and made sure I couldn’t find him. Instead he became a sort of nanny for Angel, deciding if he couldn’t be a bearer- that’s what they call males who get pregnant- he’d be a fantastic uncle instead. I spent ages looking for him, but I don’t mind saying that he’s a good deal smarter than I am, doctorate or no.”

“How did you two get back together?”

“Mycroft, actually,” John sighed, “He found me searching for Sherlock and offered me employment. I was running errands for him, hoping that associating with him would get me closer to Sherlock. Then I found out he was up to no good and tried to get word to Sherlock. My efforts failed and I ended up locked in a cave. Sherlock stumbled across me quite by accident… with a little red-headed child on his hip. I thought she was mine, that he’d somehow gotten ahold of my DNA and had a baby without me. I was so…”

John paused and closed his eyes, not having to fake the emotion this time.

“Take your time,” Riley soothed, touching his wrist gently.

“I was this horrid mixture of betrayed and elated. I just wanted him back so badly. Then Mycroft showed up and told me she was his, took her from Sherlock, and handed her to… someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“A mate. A new mate. He’d killed his real one, Angel’s sire, and took up with this fellow. Moriarty.”

“Professor Moriarty? The one who chased Mr. Holmes off the bridge? Whose associate fired shots at him?”

“The same,” John nodded, “He hasn’t been seen since that day, not in public anyway. He’d just get off on the trial anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s got powerful allies. The man is dangerous.”

Riley tried to go off on that tangent, but John refused and carefully re-directed her.

“This was supposed to be my life story, yeah?” John grinned.

Riley looked annoyed, but let herself be turned to that end instead.

“Probably the most difficult part was Afghanistan,” John started, and Riley leaned forward eagerly.

[CHAPTER 23](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/111862.html)


	23. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 23

**FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM _con’t from page 1_**

W: Surviving in the desert was tricky. I don’t feel right if I don’t get a bath every day, but I had committed myself to the Queen’s Army, so I wasn’t going to abandon my commitments. I _did_ have to do things a bit less than legally… I guess it’s a good thing I’ve already lost my pension when I disappeared on them ages ago. They’ll probably demand I repay them once I tell you all this.

R: How did you survive without water?

W: I’m ashamed to say I had contacts in the black market. They got me extra salt tablets and water, I also made arrangements with a few soldiers to get water from them in exchange for things like cigarettes and alcohol which _I_ got from the black market as well. I drew the line at taking anything from my patients. I couldn’t do that. I’d rather have died than take water from sick or injured soldiers.

R: What was harder: the sun or the sand?

W: The sand. Nothing feels worse than having sand in _very_ tender areas. I may _look_ like I have legs, but all I had was carefully covered tentacles. Sand always managed to get into some really unpleasant places no matter what I did.

R: One of my readers e-mailed me a question. Everett from St. Ottery asks: Do pearls form from sand between your tentacles?

W: What? No! Gods, I’d be rich! Is that how pearls are formed? Sherlock probably knows but I’ve never focused on much from the sea. I’ve spent my whole life here.

R: Your sister has been outspoken in denying that she is a cecaelian. Any comment on this?

W: Yeah, I’m adopted.

R: Do you know who your birth parents were?

W: No.

R: Do you want to meet them some day?

W: I’m not exactly young. I doubt they’re still alive. I loved my adoptive parents, so I don’t really care if I meet the ones who left me on a beach to be found by vacationers.

R: Why did your parents hide what you were?

W: They were good people. They didn’t want me to be ostracized. There was an incident when I was little in which I jumped into the water chasing after a merman- that was Sherlock but I didn’t know it at the time- and they sat me down and explained that I couldn’t go back to the sea. I’d been out of it too long, and my people wouldn’t know me. I was sad for a long time, but I recovered.

R: You two make a charming couple. One of my readers asks: Was it love at first sight?

W: Yeah, as sappy as that sounds, it was. We met again when I was on vacation after I’d been discharged. I’d developed a fear of water by then- just the ocean not baths- because I just felt like it was _calling_ me and that was scary as [expletive deleted]. The moment I saw him again I knew I couldn’t live without him. His people mate for life; mine don’t, but I sure have.

R: Are there any clues as to where Angel could be?

W: We don’t think Moriarty has her. He’d have used her against us by now. We think some well-meaning person took her to protect her. Sherlock mentioned a scent at the scene, indicating that Mycroft wasn’t distressed over her when he died. He would have been if she’d been taken from him by force.

R: What do you want to do with the rest of your life?

W: Raise kids, I guess. Solve crimes with Sherlock. Blog about it. Eat take-away.

R: Will you work as a doctor again?

W: If people will have me. I’ve been given some pretty nasty looks lately.

R: What sort of prejudice have you faced?

W: Threats for the most part. My blog’s been so inundated by them I’ve had to shut down comments.

R: What have you done about it?

W: Nothing. People responding like that are just scared, but they don’t scare me. We’ll find a way to peacefully coexist eventually.

R: Do you see your potential children being accepted by society?

W: If I don’t there’s no going back now. Even the ocean is going to be flooded with hateful people. If they want to cause trouble all they need is scuba gear.

R: What will you do if you can’t make a peaceful life here?

W: Go to the ocean, I suppose, but like I said they just need to rent scuba gear.

R: Will you take up your mantle as a soldier if need be?

W: Of course. Anyone would. You defend what you believe in, and peace is something I believe in; if I have to fight for it- for my children- I will, but I’d really rather not. War doesn’t really solve problems- at least not the problem it set out to address. It just creates a lot of loss. I’m a soldier and a doctor. Sherlock has pointed out the contradiction in that to me many times. I’m not afraid to kill, and I have. I’m also determined to save lives.

R: Who comes first, the Queen or the ocean?

W: … I don’t know. That’s a hard one. I guess it depends on who stands by _me_. I’d like to stand for Queen and Country- I consider myself an Englishman- but I don’t know if I’m welcome in the country I grew up in. This is my _home_ , but I’m an outsider in it. That’s a rough spot to be in.

John and Sherlock had discussed this in great deal. Reminding the world that he was a war hero was essential to their cause. Mentioning Angel and their search for her as much as possible was also a necessity. What John wasn’t prepared for was a very pale Sherlock to come rushing into the apartment and throw Kitty Riley out on her ear with barely a word.

“Get out. Now.”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Riley asked, standing up and looking concerned.

“Now!” Sherlock snarled, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the door.

“Sherlock?” John asked, “What is it? Is it Angel? Moriarty?”

“I can help you, protect you! I have resources and the public’s ear!” Riley argued, but Sherlock gave her a firm shove and slammed and locked the door.

“Sher?” John asked, moving closer and grasping his trembling shoulder, “What happened?”

“A mistake. I made a mistake.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Not this one. It shouldn’t have. If I’d just listened to my _instincts_.”

“What is it? What’s happened? Is it Angel?”

“Nevermind,” Sherlock shook his head and pulled away, “Come to bed with me. Now.”

“Sherlock what…”

“I _need_ you, John.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “Okay. Sure. Let’s go to bed, then.”

Riley was turned out on her ear with a few polite words from John and some rather rude ones from Sherlock. He then took his husband to bed and fucked him to within an inch of conciousness. Once Sherlock was still and sated John lay stretched beside him and wrapped all around him, gently stroking his curls and waiting for Sherlock to open up.

“What happened?” John prodded.

“I’ll tell you once I figure out _why_.”

John sighed in frustration, snuggled against his recalcitrant lover, and let himself drift to sleep.

XXX

Sherlock lay still, making sure he clenched his internal muscles. If he waited long enough John’s semen pods would either absorb into his body or they’d be expelled in the morning. He couldn’t even begin to explain why he needed them inside him; he couldn’t get pregnant in this form anyway. He just knew that he _had_ to make up for losing the ones John had ‘given’ him before, because when he’d gone back to the hospital to fetch the little pods he’d been shocked to find all the trash he still in the can _except_ for that little tissue full of John’s DNA.

[CHAPTER 24](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/112015.html)   



	24. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 24

In the most anti-climactic way possible… things calmed down for a while.

John found himself going through routines like before, though now with an angry sister who wasn’t speaking to him and a great deal of odd looks in the streets. He’d learned to control his ability to appear human and Sherlock had adopted a kilt for times when people got aggressive and sprayed him with water just to see him flop about on the ground. Sadly, Sherlock wasn’t the only target and the news was filled with ‘outings’ as people jokingly sprayed someone with water and found out their friend was secretly a merperson. Once the police realized that _British citizens_ \- people born in Britain with proper ID and everything despite being merpeople- were also a part of the mix, it became a matter of diffusing the situations before someone was seriously hurt.

Despite the pervading- if racially tense- peace, Sherlock maintained his stance that Moriarty was merely biding his time. Eventually he got bored and frustrated enough to declare they needed to return to the sea for a bit to let him stretch his tail properly. John and Sherlock headed for open water and quite a few beach bunnies waved them off as they dove into the sea together.

John did a flip for sheer joy once he got into the water again, laughing and whooping at the weightlessness that allowed him full freedom of movement for the first time in weeks. Sherlock even joined him in the frivolity and they swam out to some rocks and played an impromptu game of tag until they tired of it. Then came a lazy swim towards deeper waters and the little nest that Donovan had prepared for her eggs.

“Do you think they’ve had them yet? The babies? Do you think we’ll see them?” John asked, eager to see some more of his own kind, even if the cephaelians were a sort of distant cousin.

“I imagine so,” Sherlock replied, “We made them with a fast breeding rate.”

“Will that be a problem?” John asked worriedly.

“Decidedly,” Sherlock nodded, “We’re going to need to introduce birth control methods.”

“That’s going to be awkward. Will you sit Donovan down and give her ‘The Talk’, or shall I?” John quipped, but Sherlock had suddenly become serious.

“Something isn’t right.”

“What?” John asked, feeling his venom draw up. His mate would _not_ be hurt.

They were near the little rocky cove that Donovan had claimed as her nest, but the area was frighteningly devoid of life. Not a single sea slug crawled on the ground; the plant life was flourishing to the point of overgrowth in their absence.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered after a moment, “There’s an odd smell and… a horrible feeling. As though this area is _colder_ than others.”

“What kind of smell? A chemical smell? I smell… decomposition?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together, and he swam slowly towards Donovan’s nest. John followed, his tentacles spread out as wide as possible without restricting his movements. He would be ready for an attack.

“We’re going to need a boat and a winch,” Sherlock stated softly as he and John peered into the dark cave.

“What are those? Barrels?”

“Yes.”

“We need to leave. There could be toxic chemicals in there.”

“There aren’t.”

“Someone dumped them, Sherlock! Illegally! The animals have all been scared off! Donovan abandoned her nest!”

“ _Look_ at them, John. Really _look_. How would they get dumped off a boat and end up _inside_ that cave?”

John looked at them, looked at the exit of the cave, and peered up through the water to the shifting diamond pattern of the sun above them on the surface.

“No idea. So, how _did_ they get in there?”

“They didn’t _get_ in there,” Sherlock replied, swimming back towards the coast, “They were _placed_ in there.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John had never felt so cold and horrified in his life. He had seen death in Afghanistan; far too much. This… this was different. This was the cold-blooded murder and desolation of his own _kind_.

“That’s it,” John whispered in horror, “There’s only the four of us now.”

“More to come if Susan’s amorous activities are productive, which they will be,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he pulled out his magnifying glass and studied the morbid contents of the barrels.

“Gods, Sherlock, could you be a bit less cold for a minute? I’ve just lost half my species!”

Sherlock looked up in surprise, “I wasn’t aware you were considering yourself anything but human. When did this transition occur?”

John threw his arms up in defeat and stormed out of the morgue. He couldn’t stand the sight anyway. Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock had been stuffed into those barrels _alive_ and then had wet cement poured over them. There were claw marks on the lids from them trying to get out before they’d suffocated and eventually died. The cement had hardened around them and they were grotesquely preserved even as they decayed. Sally’s face, when they’d managed to exhume it from the cement, had been agape with horror. John had estimated their death at a week ago, but there was a considerable margin for error considering the state of their preservation.

Sally Donovan’s eggs had not been located.

A/N – Sorry for the short chapter, but I’m beat and this felt like a good spot to leave off. More to come. I hope to finish this one off in about six chapters depending on how willing my muse is to not be a bitch. There is a shocking (though not sad) ending coming up: some will hate it, some will love it, and I will laugh at it… cause I’m silly like that.

[CHAPTER 25](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/112515.html)


	25. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 25

John sought out the company of his fellow cecaelians only to find that all their contacts were dead. He called Kitty Riley, thinking she’d have a way to reach them, and was informed that she was trying to find them too. He and Kitty met in the café below 221B and she showed him some surveillance footage of someone dragging Antonio into a van.

“The man is a famous actor, the fact he was kidnapped and it hadn’t made the news is just appalling!”

“It isn’t the first time,” John replied with a frown, “He was nabbed by Mycroft and ‘studied’ some time ago.”

“Yeah, but that one _did_ make the news, not to be insensitive. His friends reported him missing and his fans held a candlelight vigil to pray for his return.”

John snorted. Only Lestrade had noticed his own disappearance, and it had apparently cost him his life; his own sister hadn’t cottoned on until he’d returned with tentacles.

“So what can we do?” John asked, “I’ll show this stuff to Sherlock, but I have a feeling the git already knows.”

“What will he do?”

“Look for them. Unless he already knows where they are, which I suspect he does.”

“If he knows he has a duty to go to the police,” Riley informed him gently.

“Yeah, but he has this annoying habit of wanting to finish out his investigations before telling them anything.”

“So if he _does_ know and he hasn’t gone to them yet, it means that there is still more to find out. Perhaps he’s tracking the kidnappers.”

“That’s my thought.”

“Where is he now?” Riley worried, chewing on her lip, “I know we’re done all of your interviews, but I hate him wandering off where I can’t reach him.”

John laughed, “Join the club. He’s his own man, always has been. If Sherlock doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Hopefully the criminals out there have as much trouble tracking him as I do.”

XXX

Sherlock stood by the pool and studied the last place his brother had been alive… and his niece free. Moriarty didn’t have her, of that he was certain, but it didn’t stop him from hoping there were some clues here. Sherlock looked up as the doors swung open and grimaced as John moved forward on tense ‘arms’.

“Well this is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?” John parroted, and it didn’t take a genius to know that he wasn’t speaking his own words, “The pool, where your brother was my prisoner, I stopped him… I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.”

John opened his jacket and revealed a bomb strapped to his chest, “What would you like me to make him say next?”

Sherlock snarled angrily. He’d known Moriarty was kidnapping all the cecaelians, but this?! His mate!

“Get out here, Moriarty!” Sherlock shouted, “Face me like a man!”

“Oh, but _are_ you a man?” Moriarty’s singsong voice queried, “Seeing as how you can get pregnant, I _rather_ doubt it.”

“Been studying us, have you?”

“It was painfully easy to abduct mermen and women from the hospitals after your brother’s charming display of animal cruelty.”

Sherlock frowned at his description of a plane crashing into a courting area, but didn’t reply. Moriarty strode down the length of the pool and slipped a hand around John’s waist.

“Oh, he’s so _cute_ ,” Moriarty flirted, “I should get a live-in one. It must be so funny.”

John’s tentacles lashed out and he had Moriarty beneath him in an instant, but a glance at Sherlock made him still. Sherlock didn’t have to see John’s frantic retreat to know that there was a red dot floating on his forehead; Moriarty was nothing if not thorough.

Moriarty laughingly stood back up on his feet, brushing off his suit and checking it for chlorine stains, “Westwood.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“Well since you’ve asked,” Moriarty teased, “I’d like to know your entire procedure for turning _ordinary_ people into _this!_ ”

He held out his arms toward John as if he were a display on a game show and John rolled them in irritation.

“Embarrassingly predictable,” Sherlock snorted, “And I suppose you’ll be turning the entire world into them? How typical.”

“Oh, no. Not the world. Just myself. You see, once I eliminate Johnny here- and I will, your only choice is how _painfully_ I kill him- I’ll then be the only cecaelian alive in the entire world!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “So then you’ll do what? Go down to the bottom of the ocean, set up in a cold cave, and charge mermaids their voices for a chance to meet their Prince Charming?”

“Ah, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to live in the ocean, of course, but I’m not going to be a _sea witch_. I’m going to be a god.”

“A god.”

“Your people are alarmingly devoid of religion, why do you think that is?” Moriarty asked, his voice purring as he stalked closer to Sherlock.

“Likely because it was science that kept us alive when our [island home](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlantis) was swallowed up by the sea,” Sherlock replied, “We _were_ the most advanced of the Old People, after all. Plato was one of our own, though his family stayed on land; his loss to Greece was the real tragedy, not the [sinking of our Island](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AUEjzVQwKo) long before.”

“Don’t you mean continent? My research shows it was _much_ larger. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what made it sink?”

“It was swallowed up by the tectonic plates. Obvious.”

“Was it?” Moriarty asked, and Sherlock smiled at him.

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“You tell me.”

“I think it _was_ sunk. Actively. Am I warm?”

“ _Scalding_.”

“How?” Moriarty asked, leaning forward with glistening eyes. Sherlock smiled slowly and Moriarty frowned in frustration, “You won’t tell me.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, “Why should my dying words be to betray the world? John has called me cold, and he isn’t wrong, but even I would not hand you apocalypse.”

Moriarty’s eyes became steadily darker as his rage rose and Sherlock gave John a sad smile to wish him farewell. John’s eyes were filled with passion, as they always were, though this time it was not a longing for his mate. He wanted to _live_ , and Sherlock wished he could give him that.

_I can offer us death together, but nothing more my love. I’m so sorry._

Moriarty’s face was contorted in rage now, and he raised his hand to signal his snipers to gun John down.

Sherlock closed his eyes to block out the site, but the gun never fired. Instead a door slammed open and a man walked through. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he stared in shock at the silver haired man blocking the entrance.

“Sherlock. John. Moriarty,” The greeting was delivered in his usual calm voice, “I’m afraid you’ll find those red lights are quite harmless. The bomb isn’t, though, so I suggest John hold still a moment.”

“What is this?!” Moriarty howled, spinning on Lestrade in outrage.

“A difused hostage situation,” Lestrade stated calmly.

Mycroft walked through the door, his shoulder brushing Lestrade’s as he walked quickly towards John with a small kit in his hands.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock nodded to his brother.

“Sherlock.”

“How, exactly, are you alive? Lestrade I can understand, I never saw his body and the idea that you would murder your mate was rather… unbelievable.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft replied calmly, snipping wires on the vest and then stepping back, “There. Disarmed. I suggest you remove it as a precautionary…”

Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock shoving past him and tearing the vest off of John. He threw it across the floor and watched it slide- with no small amount of satisfaction- to the feet of the fuming Moriarty. Moriarty was actually _shaking_ with rage. John was instantly wrapped around Sherlock, who stroked the hair of his subtly trembling lover.

“You’re safe now,” Sherlock whispered, kissing his forehead and hoping his words were true. It was almost too difficult to hope.

“We should go,” Mycroft stated softly, “Our presence here will be no asset now.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded, “Boys! Get in here and lock this madman up!”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a motion to follow him and turned to leave, muttering to himself, “Sink the fucking world. Bloody hell.”

“I’d like an explanation,” Sherlock insisted, ignoring the sputtering Moriarty as he walked past him after Lestrade, “Preferably a _detailed_ one.”

“Yeah? I’d like dinner. Your shout. Been eating crap for weeks.”

Sherlock glanced at John in alarm.

“Not literally,” John supplied.

“Oh, good. I thought perhaps he’d been crossed with a bottom dweller,” Sherlock replied, “Nothing would shock me at this point.”

“You wanna bet?” Lestrade asked, and paused to turn and face them.

Beside Lestrade, leaning against a cop car in the fancy driveway of Mycroft’s landbased home, was Gregory Lestrade.

A/N: Before I get flooded with corrections… that last sentence is correct. Beside Lestrade was Lestrade. ;)  
  


[CHAPTER 26](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/112678.html)

 


	26. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 26

A/N Bear with me. This is where the plot starts to go all cheesy sci-fi and confusing. It’s supposed to. The next few chapters are going to be all ‘WTF is going on?!’ and then the reveal at the end will have you slapping your forehead and going ‘oh, duh’. (Not that it’s particularly genius, just that it’s a bit wonky and not much my style.) I’ll share a link for the sexy fic that inspired it at the end so you can read it in all its porny goodness. It isn’t the fic that _started_ this (it was inspired by "Splash" starring Tom Hanks and the original "Little Mermaid" book) but it’s the one that gave me the oomph I needed to finish it. (I did get the author’s permission to rip off hir fic a bit, btw.)

 

John had needs. John had a _lot_ of needs, and they were currently swelling in his tentacles as he became more and more needy. That didn’t, however, stop him from being distracted by the sight of three different Lestrades wandering around.

“Clones!” John announced, earning an annoyed look from Sherlock.

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarled.

“Not quite,” Mycroft informed him, “A similar process, but a far more advanced one. These contain all the memories of the original Gregory Lestrade.”

“You made copies of yourself as well,” Sherlock noted, “One of them was murdered by Moriarty.”

“Yes, my copies were the original copies made. I needed to be in several places at once, and I needed to be _me_ in several places at once.”

“One of your copies murdered one of Lestrade’s copies!” John announced angrily.

Mycroft winced and nodded, “Many copies are grievously mentally ill. The irony is that almost all of my copies have at some point in time ran across a copy of Gregory and chosen him as a mate; some have also been murdered by their Gregory counterpart.”

“Did they also have daughters?” Sherlock demanded.

“A couple of them, yes.”

“Then the _real_ Angel is where?” Sherlock demanded.

“Nonexistent,” Mycroft replied sadly.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in pity but John revolted at that description.

“Now hang on! Just because she was born from two clones of you lot doesn’t mean she isn’t real! She’s still got your DNA; she’s your daughter!”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft replied sadly, “Angel was born of _insufficient_ DNA. Each copy I make of Gregory or myself lives for approximately two years before they begin to rapidly age and then die. Angel seems to simply age rapidly, being born rather than created in a lab. The Angel you two held resembles a teenager right now. I have since located the Angel you found evidence of from the Mycroft who Moriarty murdered. She was in the capable care of a kind man named Higgins, but she’ll be beginning the aging process soon so it was best to take her from him and place her in a more comfortable environment. If it is any reassurance to you, both Angels are experiencing the fullest life I can manage to give them before they pass on. The eldest has even dated.”

John looked devastated but Sherlock was watching Mycroft closely.

“Are _you_ the real Mycroft Holmes?” Sherlock demanded.

“I will tell you ‘yes’, but the fact is that each copy believes himself to be the original.”

“Where is the ‘real’ Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, his voice oddly soft.

Mycroft glanced at the man beside him, who gave him a worried look, “It isn’t me?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. If you will excuse us?”

“Shit,” The Lestrade copy whispered, looking horrified, “How much longer do I have?”

“A year at the most,” Mycroft replied, then pressed a kiss to his cheek, “Do relax. It is… inevitable. Worrying about it and destroying what time you have won’t aid you.”

Lestrade nodded, his face white, and walked quietly away to oversee the arrest of more of Moriarty’s network.

“There _is_ no real Lestrade, is there?” Sherlock asked.

“Now hang on, Lestrade was only ever a clone? Really?!” John stammered.

“John, stop talking,” Sherlock frowned, “You’re embarrassing yourself. Of _course_ there once was a real Lestrade, but not anymore.”

“He’s…?” John asked, and then looked away miserably.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied sadly, “He died in the line of duty approximately three years ago, one month after I came up on dry land and made his acquaintance. We never had children. I have not allowed myself to get pregnant since because I can’t stand to bury his child, and any child I have with a copy _will_ die young. Burying the offspring of his copies is… cruel enough.”

“Can we see her?” John asked.

“I don’t think that would be best,” Sherlock stated quickly, “How do you know the real Mycroft is still alive?”

The man in front of them shrugged, “I don’t. I assume I am him and act accordingly. Whenever a copy dies he is replaced by another. If I die suddenly the same will occur. We all have tracers on us that will alert us to the death of a copy. While I am aware of other copies who have checked that network to discover if they were real or not, I have not done so.”

“Then my brother may very well be dead,” Sherlock sighed.

“I hope this causes you no undue distress,” Mycroft replied, looking a bit disgusted with the idea.

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorted, “Now what? You have Moriarty, what will you do with him?”

“We still need to catch Moran, Moriarty will be our bait.”

“You’re a fool to keep him alive,” Sherlock argued.

“We’d be a fool to let a very dangerous man go unchecked,” Mycroft countered.

“You’re both fools,” John decided, “And _I_ want to see my niece.”

“No,” Mycroft stated, “I agree with Sherlock. It wouldn’t be wise.”

“Bloody Holmes’!” John snapped.

“What if you splice Gregory’s DNA with that of another human?” Sherlock asked, “Will that slow the degradation period?”

“It has already been done, actually,” Mycroft chuckled, “The Moriarty who killed the Mycroft you saw dead was actually a partial Gregory. So far my tests show he is quite likely to survive, but mating with him was apparently impossible.”

“You made _more_ Moriarty’s?!” John demanded in horror.

“You must be one of the copies, because you’re clearly mad,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Just one,” Mycroft replied with a sigh, “It was an attempt to gain access to his network, but I’m afraid it failed. That Moriarty copy has since been killed off.”

One of the Lestrades headed over and gave Mycroft a wink, “We’re done here gorgeous.”

“Excellent. We’ll need to destroy the building. Kindly re-connect John’s bomb-“

“It’s not _my_ bomb!” John argued.

“-And set it to explode with this clock. I believe one of you researched how to perform such a function?”

“Yeah, he did,” Lestrade replied, pointing to another wearing a blue vest. He walked it over to him and relayed the instructions.

“This is more than a bit not good, Mycroft,” Sherlock informed, “Surrounding yourself with reincarnations of your lost mate-“

“Tell me you’d do different,” Mycroft stated sharply, his tone slightly accusing.

Sherlock was silent, so Mycroft waved them towards a black sedan that was pulling up. John slipped in and wrapped two tentacles protectively around Sherlock.

“How do we know we’re safe?” He whispered.

“He seems rational. I’d be able to tell if he was mad like the others,” Sherlock replied softly, stroking a tentacle without realizing what it was doing to his needy lover until the man moaned and pressed his face into his neck.

“Dr. Watson, please contain yourself,” Mycroft scoffed.

“Shut it. You or one of your freaky copies are what made me like this,” John growled angrily.

Mycroft frowned in disapproval but kept the remainder of his comments to himself despite the tentacles writhing rather nearby. John was all but _in_ Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock was rather certain he wasn’t going to be able to contain himself for long.

“Is this a long car ride? As you’ve noticed John has needs.”

Mycroft sighed, “Just a moment longer, and then you two can borrow our salt water pool.”

The car turned into what looked like a run down warehouse in the worst part of town, but once it drove in through the loading ramp it was clearly a very _modified_ building. Half the floor was taken up with a pool where various Mycroft’s and Lestrade’s were lounging; the other half was made up to look like a flat with rugs, furniture, and even a large flatscreen TV. Some of the Lestrade’s had tentacles. One was horrifically disfigured, but the Mycroft hanging off his side didn’t seem to care. There was even a Mycroft who was cephaelian floating in a tank nearby and scowling at all and sundry.

“No privacy?”

“We like to watch each other. Not only is it enjoyable from a sensual aspect, but also it allows us to quickly locate which copy is going mad and eradicate them. Obviously this is a new system. Originally each of us was unaware of the other, but events have made our mutual cooperation… necessary.”

“You mentioned a program to locate all the copies?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft handed him his mobile with an app pulled up and Sherlock studied it a moment.

“Yes, I assume you’d like to look at it in order to ascertain which of us- if any- is the real Mycroft Holmes?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, he simply handed the phone back, slipped from the car, and tugged John along with him, “We prefer _privacy_.”

Mycroft snorted, then hit a button along the wall and an intercom blared across the building.

“Sherlock swim. All out of the pool for a Sherlock swim.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a baffled look at his terminology but John was chuckling at what was evidently a joke. The couple headed towards the water while various Mycroft’s gave them scathing looks while they dragged their bright blue tails out of the water on a little pathway made of neoprene. A door at the end of the trail evidently lead to a bedroom of sorts from the glance that Sherlock got of it before it shut. The Mycroft who had led them gave Sherlock a disgusted look as well and headed through there with _his_ Lestrade on his arm.

“Knock before you enter. We have needs as well from time to time.”

Sherlock gave them a repulsed look and started stripping once the door slammed shut behind them. John chucked his shirt and vest off and slipped into the pool with barely a splash.

“Sher. Please. I feel like I might scream if I don’t…”

Sherlock slipped into the water, the liquid swallowing the last of John’s words as bubbles erupted in his ears from the sudden dunking. He went to move towards the surface, but John dropped below it and he found himself wrapped in warm, spongy, strong arms as all ten of John’s limbs wrapped around him.

“SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock…” John chanted, his tone desperate.

“Hush, love,” Sherlock soothed, his body beginning to respond to the frantic urges of his mate.

He felt John’s overwhelming number of prodding digits- Sherlock counted the tips of his tentacles as ‘fingers’ what with how dexterous they were- teasing every sensitive spot on his body. Sherlock threw his head back and let himself be overwhelmed. The salt water a soothing caress to his sun and chlorine-water abused skin and scales. A warm prod to his penile slit. Another to his clenching anus. A firm rub at his nipples. A tight grasp around his waist. Sherlock cherished how _safe_ John made him feel. All 5’ 6” of soft but powerful muscle could snap a tree in half, but at the moment they were too busy pleasuring Sherlock.

John’s teasing touch became more firm as Sherlock’s member slid from it’s internal sheath. Sherlock gasped, his back arching as the stimulation of the needy, tugging, stroking limb on his most sensitive part overwhelmed Sherlock.

“John!”

“Mmmm,” John moaned, clearly incapable of speech at this point.

The prodding at Sherlock’s entrance became more insistent and he forced himself to relax as he felt desire making him slick enough to be breached. That first push was always just a bit painful, just a bit of a burn, but John’s tentacles were so flexible that they merely distracted him by locating his prostate immediately and proceeding to stroke and pet it until Sherlock’s body quivered with need. The invasion of his penile slit always took him by surprise as he’d never had more than John’s tongue or finger in there before the change, but though it was a decidedly _odd_ feeling, it wasn’t unwelcome. Sherlock found himself first hissing in discomfort and then moaning in pleasure. That same tentacle wrapped itself around his prick and Sherlock thrust into it with abandon. He had to actually _tell_ himself to slow down.

“You’re turning me into a nymphomaniac,” Sherlock moaned.

“Where do you learn these words?” John growled in his ear, “Is someone teaching you beside me? I’ll kill them.”

_Well… not so incapable of speech after all_.

“Books and tele,” Sherlock confessed, “But I am unashamed of the pleasure I get from hearing you say you’ll kill for me.”

“I will, Sherlock. I’ll strangle them, poison them, destroy them all for _you_ , my love.”

Sherlock moaned, “That’s just a bit not good.”

“Just a bit,” John acknowledged with a chuckle, and then buried himself inside of Sherlock’s greedy hole.

“FUCK!” Sherlock screamed, his back arching and tail lashing as pleasure and pain erupted along his spine.

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Joooooohn,” Sherlock moaned, tugging at his hair before crushing his lips to his own for a needy kiss.

The kiss became all encompassing. So rarely did they focus on lips when there were so many other more interesting areas, but quite suddenly John’s lips became all important. The kiss was slow, hungry, exploratory, and sensual. Sherlock took to memorizing every single curve of the man’s lips, the location of each tooth, the mamelons upon those teeth, the ridges of the roof of his mouth, the frenulum below his tongue, that perfect, prodding, wriggling tongue itself. Sherlock whimpered into John’s mouth and clung to him tightly, both arms clenching until they ached, as the man took him slowly but deeply.

John couldn’t believe the depth of pleasure he was experiencing. Not only was he buried deeper in Sherlock than he had ever dared to go, but the man was kissing him as if he needed his lips to breathe under water. The merman’s nails bit into his flesh, but John made no complaint. He was too busy basking in the feel of his mates hot body pressed against his own. That tail that lazily moved to keep them somewhat oriented in the water- apparently moving on instinct since Sherlock was clearly distracted- stroked amongst his limbs like a fish through anemone; each caress sent shockwaves of pleasure through John as is cotylus swelled inside Sherlock’s body. Those lips! John could kiss Sherlock for days and not complian for a lack of food. Those full, cupid bow lips would make up for every single hunger pain. His moans were so deep that John could feel the vibrations down the entire length of his body.

“I’m going to fill you up, Sherlock,” John moaned.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, shuddering with pleasure, “Yes. John. _Gods_!”

John seemed to have forgotten Sherlock’s throbbing member, which was thrusting desperately into a not-quite-tight-enough loop of tentacle/arm. Sherlock whimpered needily, bucking his hips uselessly as John continued to tease him. Finally the man relented with a soft chuckle and Sherlock’s body was shifted up and in between all those long, sinuous arms. The fleshy membrains between each of John’s tentacles became like a second skin to Sherlock’s body, draping over him and holding him tightly in place. When Sherlock’s member frantically thrust out it was t find itself pressed against the rubbery underbelly of John’s body. Sherlock gasped and cried out in agony as he felt John’s lower mouth flexing. The angle was wrong for him to thrust into but he was _desperate_ to get inside of that slurping orafice. He struggled in John’s grip, but the man was powerful and unrelenting. Sherlock couldn’t move an inch without his cecaelian lover allowing it.

“You want in my mouth, Sherlock? You want me to suck that hard cock of yours?” John growled.

“John! Please! I’m so close!” Sherlock shamelessly begged as John’s cotylus stroked his prostate all the more. The sperm sacks were swollen and felt like large taste buds- adding to the sensation that it was actually a large tongue inside his arse- as they glided along Sherlock’s prostate and drove him wild with pleasure.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, “I’d give you _anything_.”

Sherlock’s back bowed again, sending them into a lazy spin as John swallowed the tip of his cock down and began to slowly draw his stiff member into his mouth. He worked the muscles of his lower mouth along the shaft slowly, massaging every inch of it. Sherlock was taught as a bowstring, his muscles all clenched and his breath coming in frantic pants, as John slowly took him into his body.

“John!”

“Oh, Sher,” John breathed, his mind slipping into that quiet, wild place it went to when he took Sherlock like this, “Oh, gods, Sher, you taste so _good_.”

John’s mouth sucked on his lover hungrily while his cotylus thrust into him with increasing fervor. Sherlock had unclenched his body, his muscles now focused on thrusting his cock over and again into John’s greedy hole. Sherlock’s entrance clenched around John spasmodically as he neared completion at a rapid rate, and John wasn’t far behind. He felt the final swell of John’s cotylus just as his own bollocks clenched within his body, and then Sherlock was coming and coming as his body emptied itself for so long he feared he’d hyperventilate.

John swallowed Sherlock’s hot seed down, devouring the delicious substance even as he moaned in pleasure. His own cotylus was exploding inside Sherlock’s body, each tiny sperm sack releasing from it’s tiny station with a burst of sharp pleasure that sent sparks erupting behind his eyes. John sighed contentedly, letting their bodies drift as the last pulses of pleasure echoed through their bodies. Sherlock’s twitching member was slowly going limp and sliding back inside of his body; the taste of his natural lubricant still a sharp tang in John’s second mouth.

“That was gorgeous,” John sighed, “ _You’re_ gorgeous.”

“Mmm, yes,” Sherlock sighed.

Sherlock was clenching his muscles around John’s cotylus and continued to clench them even as the man’s sex organ slid clear of his body. He felt that same need to keep John’s sperm inside of him, but unless he planned on spending the next ten months in this pool he’d have to let it wash out of him eventually.

_Why not?_ Sherlock thought then, _Why not let his seed take root? Why not swell up with his child? Moriarty has been caught. We’re in a perfectly lovely salt-water pool in a safe location surrounded by podmates. I’ve no reason to fear either letting myself fall pregnant or releasing John’s sperm sacks into the water and leaving here without fear of Moriarty collecting our DNA for his own nefarious purposes._

Then, as often seemed to happen once his labido had been satisfied, the dots began to connect at lightning speed, flashing through his synapses with devastating accuracy.

“Oh my gods,” Sherlock whispered in horror.

“Mmm, yeah,” John replied lazily, starting to drift off even as his body naturally kept them in a relative position.

“John. John wake up. We have to leave. You’ll have to carry me, we can’t wait until I dry.”

“Huh?” John asked sleepily.

“JOHN! WAKE UP! We’re in danger! Moriarty was captured too easily. _We’re_ the ones who’ve been captured! Mycroft is _still a threat!_ ”

No sooner did he utter those words and John began to clench him tighter in protective urgency, then the water around them filled with bright blue tails and orange hair.

[CHAPTER 27](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/113033.html)


	27. vincentmeoblinn | Drenched Ch 27

“Do relax, brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice ordered him softly, “We won’t harm you. You’re family, after all. You and your mate will be perfectly fine… as soon as my mates and daughters are as well.”

If Mycroft thought John would be relaxed and cuddly after sex he was sorely wrong. John was pumped full of testosterone and ready to fuck up anyone who tried to touch his mate. John grabbed the nearest ‘Mycroft’ and broke his neck with one tentacle. The next was poisoned. The next had his arm torn off. The odd part about fights is that they often _feel_ longer than they are, especially if the ones defending are far fewer than the ones attacking. Mycroft’s all around them- and a few Lestrade’s- all rushed them at once, and the water around them writhed with blood, bubbles, and the sounds of death. John poisoned, tore of limbs, and broke spines effortlessly and with no remorse until the water around them stilled. He could smell Sherlock’s blood and quickly turned to tend to him when he no longer saw an enemy in site.

“I’m fine, just a graze,” Sherlock insisted when John pulled him close and ran his tentacles over his body to look for the injury.

The ‘graze’ was a rather nasty cut from a harpoon or something similar on Sherlock’s side. Sherlock was clutching a harpoon that also smelled of his blood, so he must have gotten the injury taking the weapon in order to defend himself and John.

“How the fuck did we survive that?” John asked in horror.

“You’re a killing machine, I’m stubborn, and they were all copies which were starting to degrade both mentally and physically. You’re bleeding, by the way.”

“Oh, shit,” John gasped, looking down at a tentacle that was nearly shorn off. He had been so overwhelmed with adrenalin that he hadn’t felt the pain.

“You should let me cut it off completely,” Sherlock informed him, “It will grow back.”

“Well that’s… comforting,” John grunted in pain as he pulled himself out of the water after glancing around to make sure they were alone. He tugged Sherlock up after him and seated his finned lover on the tiled ground beside the pool; “Wait here.”

John dropped to his belly and slid towards the door that led to the bedroom. As he’d suspected there was a horde of Lestrade’s on the other side waiting to stab him with harpoons like some B rated sea monster movie. The narrow doorway and his odd angle played in his favor as his tentacles grasped the weapons and thrust them back at their wielder’s, knocking them backwards in most cases or disarming them in others. He turned the weapons on them and was soon dripping in blood.

“Gods. I just killed several of my friend.”

“Friends,” Sherlock corrected automatically.

“No, friend. Singular,” John insisted, slipping into the room and scouting it. There were six beds all in a row, pushed together and covered with mangled bedding. There didn’t appear to be anything else in the room except for an open window that might have been used as an escape route for some of them.

Sherlock glanced up as John returned; he’d been drying his tail off using a nearby blow dryer on a stand.

“There’s a window in there,” John informed, shutting the door behind him, “It’s high up, but it could have been used as an escape route.”

John dipped himself in the pink water of the pool to get most of the blood off and then quickly resumed his stance of guarding Sherlock until he dried off.

“We’ll have to be on our guard. Help me with Mycroft,” Sherlock insisted, standing and heading over to the cephaelian Mycroft floating in the tank by the bedroom door.

“The _real_ Mycroft?” John asked.

“Or what’s left of him, yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Hello brother.”

“Sherlock,” The creature replied as Sherlock and John levered him out of the water. His tentacles wrapped around both their waists and they walked along with him between them, “I’ve gotten news from them on occasion. What parts of it are true? Have they started a war?”

“Nearly,” Sherlock replied, hissing in pain as his tail tried to transform from the dripping water. John took more weight onto himself.

“They seem to be starting a Clone War,” John informed.

“A _clone_ war?” Mycroft and Sherlock both asked.

“Never mind,” John sighed.

“They wanted you two for your DNA; Sherlock’s for use on curing Angel of her degeneration since it is similar to my own (unaltered) DNA, and John to splice with Gregory. Their theory isn’t entirely unsound; as a creature already mated to a merman it is entirely likely that I wouldn’t reject a Gregory/John crossbreed as a mate in the way one of me rejected a Gregory/Moriarty cross.”

“So that part was true,” Sherlock noted, “What happened to turn you into this?”

“The first copy that revolted,” Mycroft frowned, “He found out what he was and decided to get vengeance on me. He had me caged for years while he forced you to create a new race. When he died another took over. And another. Finally they turned me into _this_ and put me in that tank to watch them frolic about with imitations of our lost mate.”

They had reached the car, which they opened and pressed Mycroft inside of. John took the front, hissing in pain, and Sherlock joined him to tend to his wound while he drove. John watched him press a bit of cloth to his own hip, but he largely ignored the injury in favor of tending to John’s far more severe one.

“I’ll have an accident,” John gasped in pain as Sherlock took I knife ( _where the hell did he get that from?)_ to the tip of the tentacle which was dangling by a bit of flesh and began to cut at it.

“You’ll bleed to death if you keep aggravating it. I suggest you learn how to tolerate pain fast.”

“I’ve been _shot_ before, Sherlock, I know how to tolerate pain!”

The limb was cut clean and Sherlock applied pressure to it steadily until the bleeding slowed. Then he wrapped it in strips of his shirt but it refused to stay put.

“Damn! I need a skin-safe epoxy,” Sherlock muttered.

“Hospital?” John suggested, feeling a bit faint.

“The first place they’ll look.”

“We’ve not much of a choice, I’m afraid,” Mycroft intoned from the back.

Sherlock looked at John’s pasty face and nodded his agreement. John took the next exit and headed for St. Bart’s.

“So what was a lie and what wasn’t?” John asked, hoping hearing Sherlock talk would keep him conscious. The merman had _no_ idea how to drive and Mycroft’s new form wouldn’t allow him to.

“I can’t be completely certain since they were- apparently- able to fool me so well. The copies may have been degenerating, but they were very much my brother,” Sherlock sighed, “I’m concerned we may have more than one Moriarty to contend with since the one we met today at the pool can’t _possibly_ have been killed off like fake Mycroft said since he knew about the Mycroft that was murdered. We also have no way of knowing if _this_ is the real Mycroft just because that computer program told me he was.”

“Great, so we could have an enemy in the back seat. One capable of strangling and poisoning people like I am.”

Mycroft snorted and Sherlock shrugged, “Better to keep him in sight than risk him getting out. I’m not entirely certain we’ve eliminated all the Mycroft Copies- in fact I would be shocked if we had. They are probably regrouping, possibly making more of themselves, and will soon launch another more direct assault now that trickery has failed.”

“Then we need me patched up and ready to fight,” John decided, pulling up to Bart’s and opening the door.

He promptly fell on his face. Sherlock jumped out of the car, headless of his nudity, and began shouting for help as blackness swallowed John up.

XXX

A/N -For those confused by Mycroft’s apparent helplessness, a reminder that cephaelians are created from cuttlefish and are far less capable of moving around outside of the water. Mycroft will have a rather large bottom shaped like the ‘mantle’ of the cuttlefish and very short ‘arms’ with two long tentacles (tentacles and arms are two different things, John just calls his tentacles but they’re really octopus arms) capable of being shot out of his mantle. He basically can’t travel on land faster than a tortoise. I think it fits his personality from the books rather well.

XXX

Sherlock stood by John’s bedside and ordered the nurses and doctors around since they had _no_ idea how to treat a cecaelian. Eventually he got them organized and sat down on a chair beside the wheelchair holding Mycroft.

“This isn’t awful,” Mycroft intoned, “I wonder if I can get a wingbacked wheelchair?”

“I hate you sometimes,” Sherlock informed him.

Mycroft ignored his statement and glanced up at John, “He’s waking up.”

Sherlock stood and hurried to his lover’s side, taking his hand up and kissing it firmly.

“Hungry,” John groaned.

“I’ve informed them. They’re bringing you a meal or three.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to eat someone here.”

Sherlock snorted, but that was a rather frighteningly real possibility. In the open ocean it wasn’t entirely unheard of for a hungry cephalopod to devour it’s own species. Still, he doubted John was being serious.

“What now?” John asked miserably after he’d inhaled overwhelming amounts of food. They were waiting for a nurse to discharge them.

“Now we regroup,” Sherlock replied, “Molly is downstairs. We can trust her. We’ll use her lab as a base of operations and start planning our own assault.”

John nodded to Mycroft, “You’ll tell us everything you know?”

“What pitifully little they let slip in front of me, yes,” Mycroft replied with a frown.

Sherlock had donned a pair of scrubs when he first came in, so no one questioned them as he pushed Mycroft down the hall to the elevator with John following sedately behind. They went down to the basement and entered the mortuary with not a word spoken. Molly was nowhere in sight, but Sherlock never hesitated to make himself comfortable and did so now. John let himself rest on a chair while Sherlock logged into her computer to begin doing some searches.

“He’ll need a place to confront us. He likely will choose here or Baker Street. We’ll _make_ him choose here.”

“He, who?” John asked, “Don’t you mean ‘they’?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “Moriarty is the only one who matters, the only one who _ever_ mattered. He’s manipulating all the Mycrofts; they’re merely his pawns. It’s all been a distraction.”

“How humiliating,” Mycroft sighed as though put upon.

“A distraction from what?”

“If the Moriarty we saw was the clone, then the real one is out there pulling some new…”

Sherlock looked up as the door swung open with enough force to slam into the wall and bounce back. Moriarty 1 and 2 stared back at them with equally wicked grins. Molly stood between them.

“Told you he’d come here,” Molly stated softly, “Sherlock, meet my boyfriends: Richard Brook on my right, and Jim Moriarty on my left.”

[CHAPTER 28](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/113403.html)


	28. ALTERNATE NOT-CAMPY ENDING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to complaints this is an alternate ending that isn't silly or a 'let down'. Enjoy.

**WARNINGS: Suicide.** The original ending can be found on my website http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/85941.html along with Part 2 titled "Swish of a Fin".

  
“Boyfriends plural?” Sherlock asked John.

“Boyfriends plural,” John confirmed.

“Is that normal?”

John shrugged, “For some.”

“Is this really important right now?” Moriarty interrupted with a frustrated look, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you trapped. You’ve no where to run.”

“Or swim,” John added just to be a dick.

“Or whatever you call that tentacle thing John does,” Sherlock added, just to be a bigger dick.

“I prefer to call it ‘glide’,” John stated, making a smooth motion with his hand.

“Oh, it does, doesn’t it,” Sherlock mused.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“What are we going to do with them?” Molly asked curiously.

“I’m contemplating strangulation at the moment,” Moriarty replied, an amused look on his face.

“What about them?” Molly asked.

“Oh, they’ll be dead eventually. No need to worry about them.”

Sherlock looked up sharply, “The copies? Isn’t Mr. Brook’s life also hanging by a thread?”

“No, mixing him with other DNA made him fit as a fiddle,” Moriarty smiled.

“And twice as taut,” Brook smirked, running a hand over his chest in a sensual gesture. Molly blushed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You, of course. You and your beautiful body,” Moriarty smiled while Brook giggled madly.

“You’ve got to be joking?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oh, but I’m not. In fact… lets take this someplace less… morbid.”

“What happened to us being trapped?” Sherlock snorted.

“Oh, you’re still trapped, that was just a figure of speech. You won’t be going anywhere. Ever. Again. Not without my say so,” Brook smirked.

Then the three of them turned and strolled out the door. Sherlock and John hesitated a moment, glanced at each other in consideration, shrugged, and followed after, Mycroft’s wheels squeaking behind them.  They found out quickly why they wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon. The hallway was lined on both sides with copies of Sebastian Moran, each sporting an AK 47 and standing at attention. They all squeezed into the lift, politely looking forward as though everything were normal, and John watched in horror as Moriarty chose the roof as a destination.

“That’s for the smokers,” John stated.

He was ignored, though Sherlock managed to look both unaware of his statement and disgusted by it. The doors pinged open and they stepped out onto the gravel. In the middle of the rooftop lay a gigantic bomb, bright and flashing red lights. John’s stomach clenched in horror as he thought of all the innocent people beneath them.

“They’re not there,” Sherlock whispered to him.

“What?”

“The patients. They were being evacuated while we were waiting for you to be stitched up.”

“Why?” John asked, “They were warned.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with a sad sigh, “They were warned. By me.”

“What?” John asked, his eyes widening in horror.

“We needed to lure them in,” Moriarty stated plainly, “And using all of us as bait was the best maneuver.”

“This was a set-up?” John asked of Sherlock in horror, “ _You’re_ working with Moriarty?”

“Yes, John, but it isn’t what you _think._ ”

“I think you need to difuse that bomb!” John shouted at him, pointing at it angrily.

“I can’t.”

“You mean you _won’t_!”

“No, John, I mean I can’t. I literally don’t know how, and even if I did I won’t. All the Mycroft and Lestrade copies bent on wreaking havoc on our world are headed _here_. This building,” Sherlock gestured around him, “Will be their sepulcher.”

“Then we’ll be, what? Their squishy headstones?!”

“We’ll be leaving,” Moriarty grinned, “I’ve got a helicopter on stand-by. As soon as I give the signal we’ll be whisked off!”

John relaxed, but as soon as Moriarty stepped across the ground to stare creepily off the ledge John leaned in towards Sherlock.

“Can we trust him?” John whispered.

“We have to. He was the only one smart enough to outwit Mycroft… with my aid, of course.”

“Of course,” John smirked, “Then we’ll get out of here, find ourselves a cozy little island, and start making mer-thingy-crossbreed-babies!”

Sherlock stared at John quietly for a moment. Beneath them the sound of footsteps could be heard echoing in the hallways.

“John,” Sherlock asked softly, “Did you really fear you’d kill and eat a person when you were being stitched up?”

John looked away anxiously, “Of course not.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock sighed, “I was so hoping you wouldn’t.”

A click sounded in the air and John looked down to see handcuffs clipped to his wrist, attaching him to a ring affixed to the roof.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice steady despit his rising panic, “What is this?”

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock stated, his voice choked, “It isn’t reversible. I can’t fix you, and you’re too dangerous. Even if we could contain _you_ , your instinct- and mine- is to breed. The offspring you and I could have would be overwhelming. You alone could father a thousand children! One or two we could handle and raise to respect the world, but hundreds? A thousand? John. They’d have no human remorse like what you were raised with. They’d follow their instincts. They’d breed and kill and eat. Just as you crave to now.”

John groaned miserably, “Sherlock, we’ll find another solution. I’ll be sterilized…”

“Your body regenerates. Cut of your cotyl and it will grow back. Introduce it to chemicals and it will flush them.”

“We’ll sterilize you… after you have a merbaby with… with someone else!” John offered, pain lancing his voice at the suggestion.

“I can’t. You know I can’t. Just like you can’t let me.”

“I know,” John groaned, “But there has to be a way!”

“There isn’t.”

Loud bangs echoed through the building below them and the door to the rooftop was being forced open.

“They’re all inside,” Moriarty announced, “Or close to it. They’re within the blast radius.”

“Do you hate me?” John forced out, “Do I disgust you?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered, stepping close and gently stroking his cheek, “No, my beloved. My mate. I _worship_ you. You are without flaw in my eyes, but to the world…”

John nodded, tears streaking down his cheeks as he swallowed repeatedly to hold down the sobs, “You should go.”

He had to shout this time, because the helicopter had appeared above them and was quickly landing. John flinched at the dryness that hit his limbs as the rotors flung air their way. Moriarty was headed their way, hand held up to fend off his flapping tie.

“Sherlock! Now!”

Sherlock smiled softly at John and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. John wanted to draw him in and keep him forever, but he knew he couldn’t. The bomb had twenty seconds left on it.

“Go,” John mouthed to him.

Sherlock shook his head sadly, “Go ahead, Jim!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Moriarty shouted at him.

“I’m not leaving,” Sherlock shouted back, “I won’t live without John.”

“No!” John shouted, his tentacles coming up to try to force Sherlock towards the helicopter, “No! I won’t be the end of you!”

“I’m not leaving you, John!” Sherlock shouted, and a click to his other wrist showed Sherlock clasped to him. John groaned in misery and set about trying to brake it.

Sherlock swore in pain as John’s clumsy, desperate efforts snapped his wrist, but John was relentless. Moriarty, Brook, and Molly had all boarded the helicopter. Real Mycroft looked on in misery from his chair but brooked no argument. The Lestrade’s had broken through the door and surged forward with murderous intent.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, clasping him close with a few limbs even as he turned to face this new threat. He wouldn’t let them touch his love!

“Goodbye, John!” Sherlock shouted over the Helicopter that sped away from them.

“No!” John shouted, “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”

He tore at them, rending flesh from bone and screaming out his rage and helplessness. Sherlock’s hand never stopped stroking along one long tentacle that was wrapped about his waist. When John turned once again to reason with him, to try to make him see that me _must leave_ he caught the timer on the bomb. Four seconds. A sharp blossom of pain to his side sent a fresh wave of agony through him. He’d been stabbed. Three seconds. He pulled Sherlock to him for one final kiss. Two seconds. A Mycroft screamed in outrage and brought a rock down on Sherlock’s head. One second. John roared in outrage as blood stained his lover’s fair face. A loud beep in the sudden silence of the absent helicopter and shocked clones. The world vanished in a sudden rush of pain and light.

XXX

Moriarty stared down at the horror before him. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital was no more. Neither was the threat to his livelihood in the form of the Holmes brothers. He was still a wanted man, but he could go anywhere with the money he had and make the world his own again. Perhaps he’d visit Loch Ness and see if _they_ had any interesting marine life.

 _Speaking of life… what a waste of,_ Moriarty frowned, _All that brilliance and he was taken down by_ sentiment _. It truly is a chemical defect found in the losing side. If only that brilliant mind hadn’t been on the side of the angels. Oh well…_

The man hefted the small cooler from the floor of the helicopter. Within it was a tissue that contained the DNA of one John Hamish Watson.

_Oh the trouble I can get into with this!_

**WARNINGS: Suicide.**  
  
“Boyfriends plural?” Sherlock asked John.

“Boyfriends plural,” John confirmed.

“Is that normal?”

John shrugged, “For some.”

“Is this really important right now?” Moriarty interrupted with a frustrated look, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you trapped. You’ve no where to run.”

“Or swim,” John added just to be a dick.

“Or whatever you call that tentacle thing John does,” Sherlock added, just to be a bigger dick.

“I prefer to call it ‘glide’,” John stated, making a smooth motion with his hand.

“Oh, it does, doesn’t it,” Sherlock mused.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“What are we going to do with them?” Molly asked curiously.

“I’m contemplating strangulation at the moment,” Moriarty replied, an amused look on his face.

“What about them?” Molly asked.

“Oh, they’ll be dead eventually. No need to worry about them.”

Sherlock looked up sharply, “The copies? Isn’t Mr. Brook’s life also hanging by a thread?”

“No, mixing him with other DNA made him fit as a fiddle,” Moriarty smiled.

“And twice as taut,” Brook smirked, running a hand over his chest in a sensual gesture. Molly blushed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You, of course. You and your beautiful body,” Moriarty smiled while Brook giggled madly.

“You’ve got to be joking?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oh, but I’m not. In fact… lets take this someplace less… morbid.”

“What happened to us being trapped?” Sherlock snorted.

“Oh, you’re still trapped, that was just a figure of speech. You won’t be going anywhere. Ever. Again. Not without my say so,” Brook smirked.

Then the three of them turned and strolled out the door. Sherlock and John hesitated a moment, glanced at each other in consideration, shrugged, and followed after, Mycroft’s wheels squeaking behind them.  They found out quickly why they wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon. The hallway was lined on both sides with copies of Sebastian Moran, each sporting an AK 47 and standing at attention. They all squeezed into the lift, politely looking forward as though everything were normal, and John watched in horror as Moriarty chose the roof as a destination.

“That’s for the smokers,” John stated.

He was ignored, though Sherlock managed to look both unaware of his statement and disgusted by it. The doors pinged open and they stepped out onto the gravel. In the middle of the rooftop lay a gigantic bomb, bright and flashing red lights. John’s stomach clenched in horror as he thought of all the innocent people beneath them.

“They’re not there,” Sherlock whispered to him.

“What?”

“The patients. They were being evacuated while we were waiting for you to be stitched up.”

“Why?” John asked, “They were warned.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with a sad sigh, “They were warned. By me.”

“What?” John asked, his eyes widening in horror.

“We needed to lure them in,” Moriarty stated plainly, “And using all of us as bait was the best maneuver.”

“This was a set-up?” John asked of Sherlock in horror, “ _You’re_ working with Moriarty?”

“Yes, John, but it isn’t what you _think._ ”

“I think you need to difuse that bomb!” John shouted at him, pointing at it angrily.

“I can’t.”

“You mean you _won’t_!”

“No, John, I mean I can’t. I literally don’t know how, and even if I did I won’t. All the Mycroft and Lestrade copies bent on wreaking havoc on our world are headed _here_. This building,” Sherlock gestured around him, “Will be their sepulcher.”

“Then we’ll be, what? Their squishy headstones?!”

“We’ll be leaving,” Moriarty grinned, “I’ve got a helicopter on stand-by. As soon as I give the signal we’ll be whisked off!”

John relaxed, but as soon as Moriarty stepped across the ground to stare creepily off the ledge John leaned in towards Sherlock.

“Can we trust him?” John whispered.

“We have to. He was the only one smart enough to outwit Mycroft… with my aid, of course.”

“Of course,” John smirked, “Then we’ll get out of here, find ourselves a cozy little island, and start making mer-thingy-crossbreed-babies!”

Sherlock stared at John quietly for a moment. Beneath them the sound of footsteps could be heard echoing in the hallways.

“John,” Sherlock asked softly, “Did you really fear you’d kill and eat a person when you were being stitched up?”

John looked away anxiously, “Of course not.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock sighed, “I was so hoping you wouldn’t.”

A click sounded in the air and John looked down to see handcuffs clipped to his wrist, attaching him to a ring affixed to the roof.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice steady despit his rising panic, “What is this?”

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock stated, his voice choked, “It isn’t reversible. I can’t fix you, and you’re too dangerous. Even if we could contain _you_ , your instinct- and mine- is to breed. The offspring you and I could have would be overwhelming. You alone could father a thousand children! One or two we could handle and raise to respect the world, but hundreds? A thousand? John. They’d have no human remorse like what you were raised with. They’d follow their instincts. They’d breed and kill and eat. Just as you crave to now.”

John groaned miserably, “Sherlock, we’ll find another solution. I’ll be sterilized…”

“Your body regenerates. Cut of your cotyl and it will grow back. Introduce it to chemicals and it will flush them.”

“We’ll sterilize you… after you have a merbaby with… with someone else!” John offered, pain lancing his voice at the suggestion.

“I can’t. You know I can’t. Just like you can’t let me.”

“I know,” John groaned, “But there has to be a way!”

“There isn’t.”

Loud bangs echoed through the building below them and the door to the rooftop was being forced open.

“They’re all inside,” Moriarty announced, “Or close to it. They’re within the blast radius.”

“Do you hate me?” John forced out, “Do I disgust you?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered, stepping close and gently stroking his cheek, “No, my beloved. My mate. I _worship_ you. You are without flaw in my eyes, but to the world…”

John nodded, tears streaking down his cheeks as he swallowed repeatedly to hold down the sobs, “You should go.”

He had to shout this time, because the helicopter had appeared above them and was quickly landing. John flinched at the dryness that hit his limbs as the rotors flung air their way. Moriarty was headed their way, hand held up to fend off his flapping tie.

“Sherlock! Now!”

Sherlock smiled softly at John and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. John wanted to draw him in and keep him forever, but he knew he couldn’t. The bomb had twenty seconds left on it.

“Go,” John mouthed to him.

Sherlock shook his head sadly, “Go ahead, Jim!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Moriarty shouted at him.

“I’m not leaving,” Sherlock shouted back, “I won’t live without John.”

“No!” John shouted, his tentacles coming up to try to force Sherlock towards the helicopter, “No! I won’t be the end of you!”

“I’m not leaving you, John!” Sherlock shouted, and a click to his other wrist showed Sherlock clasped to him. John groaned in misery and set about trying to brake it.

Sherlock swore in pain as John’s clumsy, desperate efforts snapped his wrist, but John was relentless. Moriarty, Brook, and Molly had all boarded the helicopter. Real Mycroft looked on in misery from his chair but brooked no argument. The Lestrade’s had broken through the door and surged forward with murderous intent.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, clasping him close with a few limbs even as he turned to face this new threat. He wouldn’t let them touch his love!

“Goodbye, John!” Sherlock shouted over the Helicopter that sped away from them.

“No!” John shouted, “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”

He tore at them, rending flesh from bone and screaming out his rage and helplessness. Sherlock’s hand never stopped stroking along one long tentacle that was wrapped about his waist. When John turned once again to reason with him, to try to make him see that me _must leave_ he caught the timer on the bomb. Four seconds. A sharp blossom of pain to his side sent a fresh wave of agony through him. He’d been stabbed. Three seconds. He pulled Sherlock to him for one final kiss. Two seconds. A Mycroft screamed in outrage and brought a rock down on Sherlock’s head. One second. John roared in outrage as blood stained his lover’s fair face. A loud beep in the sudden silence of the absent helicopter and shocked clones. The world vanished in a sudden rush of pain and light.

XXX

Moriarty stared down at the horror before him. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital was no more. Neither was the threat to his livelihood in the form of the Holmes brothers. He was still a wanted man, but he could go anywhere with the money he had and make the world his own again. Perhaps he’d visit Loch Ness and see if _they_ had any interesting marine life.

 _Speaking of life… what a waste of,_ Moriarty frowned, _All that brilliance and he was taken down by_ sentiment _. It truly is a chemical defect found in the losing side. If only that brilliant mind hadn’t been on the side of the angels. Oh well…_

The man hefted the small cooler from the floor of the helicopter. Within it was a tissue that contained the DNA of one John Hamish Watson.

_Oh the trouble I can get into with this!_

 “Sir!” The last Moran Copy shouted from the front.

“What is it now?” Moriarty shouted back angrily.

“The controls, sir! They won’t respond!”

“The what?!” Moriarty looked up in horror to see a building looming closer and closer, “ _That bastard!”_

_Fin._

**This is the proper ending (though I have re-written it since seeing S3, originally Mycroft did live as well and was quite evil) of Drenched. The other ending- the happy one- was complained of because it was silly and a bit forced. I will not be writing a sequel.**

 


	29. ORIGINAL ENDING PT 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the original campy ending which I wrote to avoid the whole Romeo And Juliet story that my fic was turning into. Some find it disappointing so read at your own risk, but if you wish to read "Swish of a Fin" this ending leads into it.

“Boyfriends plural?” Sherlock asked John.

“Boyfriends plural,” John confirmed.

“Is that normal?”

John shrugged, “For some.”

“Is this really important right now?” Moriarty interrupted with a frustrated look, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you  _trapped_. You’ve no where to run.”

“Or swim,” John added just to be a dick.

“Or whatever you call that tentacle thing John does,” Sherlock added, just to be a bigger dick.

“I prefer to call it ‘glide’,” John stated, making a smooth motion with his hand.

“Oh, it does, doesn’t it,” Sherlock mused.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“What are we going to do with them?” Molly asked curiously.

“I’m contemplating strangulation at the moment,” Moriarty replied, an amused look on his face.

“What about  _them_?” Molly asked.

“Oh, they’ll be dead eventually. No need to worry about  _them_.”

Sherlock looked up sharply, “The copies? Isn’t Mr. Brook’s life also hanging by a thread?”

“No, mixing him with other DNA made him fit as a fiddle,” Moriarty smiled.

“And  _twice_  as taut,” Brook smirked, running a hand over his chest in a sensual gesture. Molly blushed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“You, of course. You and your beautiful body,” Moriarty smiled while Brook giggled madly.

“You’ve got to be joking?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oh, but I’m not. In fact… lets take this someplace less… morbid.”

“What happened to us being trapped?” Sherlock snorted.

“Oh, you’re still  _trapped_ , that was just a figure of speech. You won’t be going anywhere. Ever. Again. Not without my say so,” Brook smirked.

Then the three of them turned and strolled out the door. Sherlock and John hesitated a moment, glanced at each other in consideration, shrugged, and followed after, Mycroft’s wheels squeaking behind them.  They found out quickly why they wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon. The hallway was lined on both sides with copies of Sebastian Moran, each sporting an AK 47 and standing at attention. They all squeezed into the lift, politely looking forward as though everything were normal, and John watched in horror as Moriarty chose the roof as a destination.

“That’s for the smokers,” John stated.

He was ignored, though Sherlock managed to look both unaware of his statement and disgusted by it. The doors pinged open and they stepped out onto the gravel. An inflatable mattress lay straight ahead, weighed down by rocks pinning all four corners of the sheet covering it. John felt his stomach plummet, but a glance at Sherlock showed him uninterested in anything but staring down Moriarty and Brook. There were guards posted all around them, each appeared to be Moran as well.

“Well!” Moriarty announced happily, “This is more like it! Open air! I  _was_  going to take you to the beach to do this, but all that  _sand_  getting in awkward places. Not. Interested. Now then, Shirley. Strip.”

“Shirley!” Sherlock repeated, giving him a disgusted look, “If you think I’m female you’re going to be  _sorely_ disappointed!”  

“Is this really your plan?” John asked, “All this madness, this collection of copies of your boyfriend- how’s he feel about this by the way?- all to get Sherlock naked in the sunlight?”

“Don’t be thick,” Moriarty snorted, “I’m going to  _seduce_  him, of course.”

“By seduce, do you mean rape?” John asked, still stalling for time. He had to trust Sherlock to get them out of this, because John was certain that no killer instinct would let him take down a dozen armed, trained men.

“I mean  _seduce_. Here, let me show you.”

Moriarty waved a hand and all twelve of the soldiers stepped forward, took aim on John, and clicked the safety off their guns. John swallowed thickly. Sherlock was as still as the grave, his face pale.

“Sherlock,” Moriarty purred, “Don’t you find me attractive?”

“Yes of course,” Sherlock replied, glancing over his shoulder and giving John a tense look.

“Sherlock, don’t,” John pleaded.

“Don’t you want to take all those heavy clothes off?” Moriarty growled.

Sherlock reached up and tugged the scrub top off.

“Sherlock!” John demanded, every fiber in his being demanded he stand still and survive, but every chemical in his brain demanded he  _stop this now_  before his mate was…

The doors to the lift pinged and opened and a few curious eyes glanced over to see the lift was packed shoulder to shoulder with Lestrade’s and Mycrofts. The only problem was that they most certainly weren’t themselves. They staggered out of the lift, moaning and clawing at their oozing skin.

“What the hell?!” Brook demanded.

“How did they get past our guards?!” Moriarty shouted.

John was backing up in alarm and he wasn’t alone, Moriarty and Moran bolted past him in terror and crowded by the edge of the building. John watched in horror as Molly rushed forward, apparently intending on seeing if she could help the pale men staggering towards her, and was immediately grabbed and pulled in amongst them. John didn’t realize what was happening until she started screaming.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, moving forward to tug Sherlock out of the way, but the man was moving on his own with a look of horror on his face.

“I thought humans didn’t practice cannibalization?” Sherlock stammered, eyes wide with alarm.

“They don’t, they’re fucking zombies!” John shouted, pulling Sherlock to the edge of the building and looking down, “How do we get down from here?!”

“You don’t,” Moriarty replied, glancing down at him coolly, “Why do you think I wanted one last fling? Those things are everywhere. We die here. On our terms or theirs.”

With that Moriarty faced the slowly moving enemy gave them a merry wave, and simply leaned back. John tried to grab for his ankle automatically, but the man eluded his grasp and fell with a cackling laugh. Brook was next, opting for a dramatic dive as though an Olympian contestant. Sherlock watched him drop while John looked away in dismay.

“That was a rather good triple flip with a twi…”

“Sherlock!!” John shouted, pointing at the advancing horde of monsters.

“Oh relax, John, they aren’t really zombies. They’re copies who have degenerated to the point of only basic functions- eat being one of them.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Can you climb us down the wall? At least to a window?”

“I think I can,” John replied, grasping Sherlock around the waist with his arms and using his tentacles to lower them.

They were hanging upside down, moving slowly down the building as John sought out different grips along the wall. Once he had to backtrack and move parallel for a bit, but then he found a way down to one of the window ledges. A hand slammed against it and John jumped, nearly losing his grip, as a rotting face pressed against the glass.

“How many are there?!”

“Moriarty and Brook seemed to think the amount indicating a rather dire situation,” Sherlock replied, his voice annoyingly calm.

John shimmied down to the next window and narrowly avoided being grabbed when it turned out to be open. He had to climb back up when he ran out of handholds and that’s when the Lestrade’s from the roof started walking off the edge in their attempt to get to them. The first sailed past them, looking unalarmed at his rapid descent, but the one after slammed into them.

John felt his tentacles slip free, his grip on Sherlock wrenched loose. While the lower part of him scrabbled for the surface his arms reached out in an attempt to regain his lost love. John watched in horror as Sherlock dropped down towards the ground, his eyes wide and frightened, his mouth opened in a little moue of horror.

_“SHERLOCK!”_


	30. ORIGINAL ENDING PT 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lead-in to "Swish of a Fin"

Okay, here it is. Please don’t kill me. This was only going to end it sadness if I hadn’t done it this way. They were way to Romeo and Juliet.

 

Jawn awoke with a scream of terror that woke the baby and jolted him out of their sleepsack and into the wall of their cave. Sh’lck groaned in frustration, untangled himself from their woven sleepsack, and swam towards their child’s tiny crib. It was a modified lobster trap, meant to keep the baby safe and in one place while the parents slept. Sh’lck had assured Jawn it was all the rage despite the horrific origin of the device. Apparently sleeping with your child cuddled into your sleepsack with you was just no longer done. Jawn suspected all that trendy talk came from Mycroft and that Sh’lck just didn’t want the baby in the same bedding as his spasmodic husband.

“I’m sorry, Lock,” Jawn groaned, “I didn’t mean to wake the baby. I didn’t smack you with my tail again, did I?”

“No, thankfully I am unbruised this time,” Sh’lck scowled, holding their child to his chest and beginning a soft swishing motion with his tail. The motion propelled him slowly around their round dwelling, soothing the child back to sleep.

“I’m really sorry,” Jawn whispered, “I don’t know why I keep having these nightmares all of the sudden.”

“It’s been since Mary was born,” Sh’lck noted, “Perhaps it’s a form of postpartum depression?”

“Maybe,” Jawn replied softly. He’d wondered that himself. “In this one I wasn’t capable of having babies and I… I stopped you from having them.”

“That’s a bit symbolic,” Sh’lck replied glancing at him carefully, “Should I worry about leaving Mary alone with you?”

“No!” Jawn gasped in horror, “Gods, no, I’d never hurt our baby. Besides, that wasn’t even the  _weirdest_  part of this dream. I was a  _human_  in it-”

“Don’t be repulsive.”

“Who got turned into an octopus-person-”

Sh’lck snorted in amusement.

“-Who dropped you while trying to save you from a horde of human undead Lestrade and Mycrofts.”

Sh’lck had to clap his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter. He didn’t want to wake the slowly settling baby.

“It isn’t funny, Sh’lck, I watched you fall to your death!” Jawn hissed.

“I take it we were on Dry Land?”

“Yes,” Jawn sighed, swishing his pale pink tail and joining Sh’lck in his laps around their living quarters, “Most of it took place on Dry Land. Mycroft didn’t approve of you marrying a  _human_. He’s the one who turned me into the octopus thingy.”

“That sounds like something he’d do just to spite me,” Sh’lck replied, rolling his eyes.

“Anjel was dying in it,” Jawn stated softly, and Sh’lck’s eyes settled on Jawn with something like pity.

“Anjel is fine.”

“I feel like seeing her, just to make sure.”

“You’re being ridiculous. She’s  _fine_. She wasn’t even hurt.”

“She was nearly killed because of me, Sh’lck,” Jawn replied sadly, “Because I let that shark past my post.”

“You didn’t  _let_  the shark past anything. It swam past you  _very_  quickly in pursuit of Anjel’s first blooding. If we’d known in advance she and her hormone-driven female friends would be starting a silly fight club than more guards would have been posted and she  _never_  would have been at risk.”

“She could have  _died_.”

Sh’lck sighed, slipping the lid shut on Mary’s ‘crib’ and clicking the latch. She floated sleepily inside the container, purple tail- just like her daddy’s- flicking lazily as the currents tickled her.

“Is this what is bothering you? Anjel’s brush with death?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. The story was about us falling in love…”

“Story?”

“What?”

“You called it a story,” Sh’lck pointed out.

“Well, dream then.”

“Yes, but why did you say story?”

Jawn shrugged, “I was sort of thinking of returning to the surface and…”

“No.”

“Sh’lck, I can’t be a writer here. I know I’m a good hunter, but writing is my passion and…”

“ _No_. You lived your whole life up there. We nearly didn’t have Mary because of it. Your friends have spurned you now you’ve returned to the ocean. There is nothing for you up there. You are  _where you belong._ ”

“I know that. I don’t want to stay. I just want to write a book, get it published, and come back. I won’t be away for longer than a few hours a day.”

“No.”

“Sh’lck!” Jawn hissed.

“Why do you want to go back there?” Sh’lck rounded on him, looking hurt, “Aren’t we enough for you? Don’t you love me? Don’t I make you  _happy?!”_

“Yes! Of course!” Jawn insisted.

Mary stirred and Jawn grasped Sh’lck’s arm and tugged him out of the cave.

“I’d never leave you. I don’t want to. I just want to get these ideas out of my head. Putting them on paper helps.”

Sh’lck sighed in frustration, “Do you still want to go see Anjel?”

“Don’t change the subject, Sh’lck,” Jawn growled.

“I’m not. Look,” Sh’lck turned Jawn where he was in the water to face Mycroft and Gregory’s cave, “They’re awake and so is Anjel.”

Jawn nodded to Sh’lck and swam down to the cave giving his tail a slap on the wall to announce his arrival. Anjel greeted him at the door.

“Don’t bother coming in. They’re doing  _it_ again.”

Jawn grinned. The bane of adolescence. Anjel was horrified by the idea that her parents had sex; despite the large cave, and the sand dunes Mycroft had piled up in it, sound still traveled.

“Can you take me for a swim?” Anjel asked anxiously.

“Not without them knowing, they’ll freak out. Come out here though, you can’t hear them from where I am.”

“It’s so gross. Why do they have to do that?”

“They probably thought you were asleep,” Jawn snickered.

“I  _was_ ,” Anjel growled, “I’ve got Mum and Uncle Sh’lck’s observation curse. Even in my  _sleep_  I know what they’re up to.”

“That does suck a bit,” Jawn chuckled.

“Can I live with you and Uncle Sh’lck?” Anjel whined.

“I hate to scar you for life, Anjel, but we have sex too.”

“Yeah, but it’s not weird. Okay, it’s a bit, but not  _as_  weird.”

Jawn shook his head in amusement, “As soon as you find your lifemate you can move into your own cave. Until then it’s too dangerous…”

“For a female to live alone. I know. My stupid menses.”

“It won’t be long.”

“It took you and Uncle Sh’lck  _decades_  to find each other.”

“Only because I was raised by humans,” Jawn soothed, “You’ll find your mate soon enough.”

“I think… I think I have, but I’m to shy to talk to him.”

Jawn smiled, “Someone I know?”

“Yeah, like I’d tell you,” Anjel stuck out her tongue, “You can’t keep a secret for shit.”

“Oi, language,” Jawn scolded lightly.

“I’m a  _woman_  now, I’ll curse if I want to.”

“You’re a  _teenager_  now, I’ll paddle you if you start thinking your fins are bigger than they are.”

Anjel pouted, “ _How_  do I talk to a boy?”

“You go up and say ‘Hi, I’m a mermaid with a ridiculously high IQ who can tell everything about you at a glance. By the way, you’re my lifemate.’ Then you wait for him to forget how to swim just from looking at your pretty red hair.”

Anjel laughed, “Yeah right, like that would  _work_.”

“Why not?” Jawn asked with a laugh, “Worked on me… well, once we got past the language barrier.”

Anjel rolled her eyes, said her farewells, and went back in to bed. Jawn returned home and found Sh’lck waiting up for him, a bemused look on his face.

“What?”

“So it was a love story?”

Jawn smiled and slipped into the suspended netting that made up their sleep sack, “Yeah.”

Jawn wrapped his arms around Sh’lck’s waist and smiled as the man pulled him close by his shoulders. He stared into those gorgeous eyes and wondered how he had ever lived without his brilliant detective and mate.

“Tell it to me from the beginning,” Sh’lck replied with a soft smile of his own.

 


End file.
